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OTKIiffiL 


R?MSs:EEL10T 


THE  LIBR. 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


.*iy2pj 


OLD  COURT  LIFE 
IN  SPAIN 


FRANCES  MINTO  ELLIOT, 

AUTHOR    OF    "OLD    COURT    LIFE    IN    FRANCE,"    ETC. 


COPYRIGHT  EDITION. 


IN   TWO    VOLUMES.  — VOL.  I. 


B  RE  NT  AN  O'S 

NEW  YORK. 


Printed  in  Germany 


TO 

MRS.    HUMPHRY   WARD, 

TO   WHOSE  RESEARCHES 

I  AiM  SO   MUCH  INDEBTED,   THIS   REVIVAL   OF 

OLD   SPANISH  TIMES 

IS   AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED. 


203953;e 


PREFACE. 


In  no  boastful  spirit  I  gratefully  acknowledge  the 
flattering  success  of  "Old  Court  Life  in  France,"  written 
twenty  years  ago.  It  is  precisely  owing  to  the  favour 
with  which  the  public  in  England,  America,  and  on  the 
Continent  still  honour  this  work  that  I  have  endeavoured 
to  reproduce  on  the  same  plan  some  pictures  of  early 
Spanish  history,  comparatively  little  known  to  the  general 
public. 

Nothing  can  possibly  be  more  thrilling  and  more 
romantic. 

It  is  with  the  earlier  and  less  known  passages  of 
old  Court  life  I  have  dealt  down  to  the  reign  of  Fer- 
dinand and  Isabel,  from  which  period  the  history  of 
Spain  loses  its  peculiar  identity  and  becomes  merged 
into  that  of  Europe. 

If  I  have  loved  the  courtly  history  I  also  love  the 
country.  A  great  part  of  this  work  was  written  in 
Spain,  in  the  very  places  where  the  events  occurred. 
May  the  reader  share  the  same  enthusiasm  I  felt  in 
describing  them! 


AUTHORITIES. 


Dozy — Histories. 

Mrs.  Humphry  Ward  in  Smith's  Dictionary  of  Christian  Biography 

on  Gothic  Ecclesiastical  History. 
Biographic  Universelle. 
Bradley — Story  of  the  Nations. 
Lane  Poole — The  Moors. 

Romanceros,  Ballads  of  the  Cid,  Ballads  of  Bernardo  del  Carpio. 
Lockhart — Spanish  Ballads. 
Cid  Campeador,  by  Prince  Odescalchi. 

Storia  de  Don  Pedro  Abogado  da  los  Tribunales  Nacionales. 
Chronicles  of  King  Alfonso  El  Sabio. 
Washington  Irving's  Works. 
Murray's  Guide  for  Spain. 
Diary  of  an  Idle  Woman  in  Spain. 
Prescott's  History  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabel. 


CONTENTS 
OF     VOLUME     I. 


Page 

Chapter     I.     Introduction ii 

—  n.     Don  Rodericli. — Gathering  of  tlie  Cliiefs. — 

Trial  of  Witica 44 

—  III.     Don  Roderich's  Perfidy 60 

—  IV.     Don  Julian  goes  over  to  the  Moors   ...  76 

—  V.     Landing  of  the  Moors.— The  Eve  of  Battle  82 

—  VI.     Battle   of  Guadalete. — Overthrow    of   Don 

Roderich 90 

—  VII.     Cordoba. — Pelistes.— Don  Juhan. — Florinda  97 

—  VIII.     Frandina   and   her   Son    put   to   Death   by 

Alabor 108 

—  IX.     The  Moors  at  Seville. — Mousa  and  Abdul- 

asis 118 

—  X.     Abdul-asis  and  Egilona 128 

—  XL     The  Moors  at  Cordoba 143 

—  XII,     Abdurrauian,  Sultan  of  Cordoba  ....  148 

—  XIII.     Onesinda  and  Kerim 155 

—  XIV.     Tragic  Death  of  Onesinda 161 

—  XV.     Pelayo  proclaimed  King  by  the  Goths   .     .  166 


10 


CONl-ENTS    OF   VOLUME  I. 


Chapter    XVI. 

—  XVII. 

—  XVIII. 

—  XIX. 

—  XX 

—  XXI. 

—  XXII. 

—  XXIII. 

—  XXIV. 

—  XXV. 

—  XXVI. 

—  XXVII. 

—  xxvm. 

—  XXIX. 

—  XXX. 

—  XXXI. 

—  XXXII. 

—  XXXIII. 

—  XXXIV. 

—  XXXV. 


Page 

Bernardo  del  Carpio 172 

King  Alonso 183 

Bernardo  del  Carpio's  Vow     .     .     .     .  187 
Bernardo  leads  the  Goths  against  Charle- 
magne       192 

Death  of  Sir  Roland  the  Brave   .     .     .  ig8 
Bernardo  learns  the  Secret  of  his  Birth. 

— Joins  the  Moors 201 

El  Conde  de  Castila 211 

Dona  Ava 221 

Marriage  of  Dona  Ava  and  El  Conde  de 

Castila. — Treachery  of  Do.^a  Teresa  .  228 
Dona  Ava  outwits  Don  Sancho  and  re- 
leases her  Husband 234 

The  Cid 243 

Don  Diego  Laynez  and   the  Conde  de 

Gormez 247 

Don  Rodrigo  {the  Cid)  kills  the  Conde 

de  Gormez 251 

Marriage  of  the  Cid  and  Dofia  Ximena  257 
Death  of  King  Fernando. — Dona  Urraca 

at  Zamora 263 

Don  Alfonso  Banishes  the  Cid     .     .     .  268 

The  Cid  bids  Dona  Ximena  farewell     .  273 
Adventures    of    the   Cid.  —  Death    and 

Burial 275 

Fernando  el  Santo 284 

Don  Pedro 295 


OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 


CHAPTER    I. 
INTRODUCTION. 

How  great  is  Spain!  How  mighty!  From  the 
rugged  mountains  of  the  Asturias,  their  base  washed 
by  stormy  waves,  and  the  giddy  heights  of  the  Pyrenean 
precipices — an  eternal  barrier  between  rival  peoples — 
to  the  balmy  plains  of  the  South,  where  summer  ever 
reigns!  A  world  within  itself,  with  a  world's  variety! 
"  Quien  dice  Espana  dice  todo!" 

And  its  history  is  as  varied  as  the  land.  First,  ac- 
cording to  the  legend,  Hercules  set  his  pillars,  or  "keys" 
— the  ne  plus  ultra  of  land  and  sea — on  the  rock  of 
Calpe  (Gibraltar)  in  Europe,  and  on  Abyle  (Ceuta)  in 
Africa.  And,  that  no  one  should  doubt  it,  he  placed 
his  temple  on  the  water-logged  flats,  half-sea,  half-land, 
behind  Cadiz,  long  remembered  by  the  Moors  as  the 
"district  of  Idols,"  near  the  city  of  Gades,  where  Geryon 
dwelt,  from  whom  Hercules  "lifted"  that  troop  of  fat 
oxen  which  he  was  destined  so  long  to  drive  wearily 
about  the  earth.     In  memory  of  all  which  Charles  the 


12  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

Fifth,  the  great  Emperor,  carried  Hercules'  pillars  on 
his  shield,  with  the  proud  motto:  " Ne  plus  ultra," 
and  the  city  of  Cadiz  (Gades)  still  bears  them  as  its 
arms. 

Then,  tradition  past,  came  invaders  from  the  earliest 
times,  Celts,  Phoenicians,  and  Greeks,  driving  the  Iberians 
from  their  rightful  lands.  The  Carthaginians,  too,  crossed 
from  Africa  along  the  southern  coast,  and  settled  at 
Cartagena,  which  still  bears  their  name. 

The  Romans  next  appeared,  victorious  under  Pom- 
pey  and  Caesar,  spreading  over  Spain,  but  especially 
powerful  at  Seville,  Cordoba,  Toledo,  Segovia  and  Tar- 
ragona, where  they  have  left  their  mark  in  mighty 
monuments. 

A  race  of  uncivilised  warriors  followed  from  the 
north,  so  powerful  that  two  Roman  Emperors  perished 
in  battle  with  them.  Of  the  precise  seat  of  the  Gothic 
nation  it  is  hard  to  speak  with  certainty.  It  is  however 
known  that  they  came  from  the  extreme  north,  spread- 
ing to  the  borders  of  the  Black  Sea,  into  Asia  Minor  in 
the  east,  and  to  the  south  of  Spain  in  the  west.  They 
are  mentioned  by  Pliny,  about  sixty  years  before  Christ, 
and  later  by  Tacitus,  who  twice  refers  to  them  as 
"Gothones."  There  were  so  many  tribes,  Visigoths, 
Astrogoths,  Gepidoe,  and  even  Vandals,  that  their  story 
is  as  a  tangled  web,  mixed  with  that  of  all  nations,  but 
it  is  clear  that  those  who  concern  our  present  purpose 
came  down  into  Spain  from  Narbonne  and  Toulouse. 

It  is  strange  how  soon  these  savage  northmen 
discarded  their  wooden  idols,  Woden,  Thor  and  Balder, 
the  gods  of  thunder  and  of  the  sun — so  that  when  Con- 
btantine  the  Great   christianised   the  world,   the  Gothic 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  1 3 

chief  Wulfila  was  ready  to  become  a  convert.  Who  this 
Wulfila  was,  and  how  he  came  to  be  at  Constantinople, 
is  not  clear.  As  Bishop  of  the  Goths  he  returned  to 
mission  arise  his  countrymen,  the  Dacian  tribes,  in  the 
mighty  plains  of  Philipopolis  (a.d.  310-314),  and  made 
a  translation  of  the  Bible  into  Gothic.  Even  in  our 
own  day  something  of  this  precious  manuscript  remains, 
beautifully  written  in  letters  of  gold  on  purple  vellum, 
at  the  Swedish  University  of  Upsala. 

From  the  earliest  times  the  Goths  had  a  rude  alpha- 
bet (Runes),  which  Wulfila  increased,  with  letters  closely 
resembling  English,  in  his  translation  of  the  Scriptures. 

Rude  indeed!  The  letters  were  formed  by  staves 
on  wooden  boards,  but  all  the  same  were  destined  to 
become  most  ornamental.  Gothic  letters  are  still  in  use 
for  decorative  purposes.  Numerous  Gothic  manuscripts 
exist,  written  in  these  picturesque  characters,  and  the 
inscription  over  the  portal  of  Pedro  el  Cruel  at  the  Al- 
cazar at  Seville  is  in  Gothic.  To  this  day  too,  in  the 
Muzaraba  Chapel,  under  the  eastern  tower  of  the  Cathe- 
dral of  Toledo,  the  service  is  celebrated  according  to 
the  Christian  rite  from  Gothic  missals,  dating  from  the 
time  of  King  Recaredo. 

The  line  of  Gothic  rulers  in  Spain  lasted  for  nearly 
two  centuries  and  a  half.  No  less  than  thirty  kings 
succeed  each  other  in  that  period,  most  of  whom  died 
either  by  violence  or  in  battle. 

Alaric,  "the  scourge  of  God,"  never  came  into  Spain, 
but  Eurico,  his  immediate  successor,  did.  Eurico  was 
the  greatest  warrior  of  his  time,  and  so  versed  in 
Christian  polemics  that  he  insisted  on  the  entire  nation 


14  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

becoming  Arians  like  himself.  Nothing  but  the  close 
contact  of  the  Goths  with  that  hot-bed  of  heresy,  Con- 
stantinople, can  account  for  a  semi-barbarian  indulging 
in  a  choice  of  divers  forms  of  doctrine,  nor  for  the 
power  the  Gothic  bishops  arrogated  to  themselves  after  the 
precedent  of  the  eastern  prelates  up  to  the  time  of  Witica. 
Like  the  Greek  patriarchs  they  were  mixed  up  in  every 
political  intrigue,  conspiracy  and  revolution;  made  and 
unmade  kings  at  their  pleasure,  and  greatly  influenced 
the  ecclesiastical  world  by  the  decrees  of  their  councils 
at  Toledo.  The  Goths  were,  indeed,  for  ages  a  priest- 
ridden  nation,  and  the  names  of  their  great  archbishops 
have  come  down  to  us  as  landmarks  in  the  land. 

So  high  did  party  feeling  run  between  Arians  and 
Orthodox  that  Leovigildo  caused  his  only  son  to  be 
executed  because  he  had  called  an  Arian  bishop  "a 
servant  of  the  devil,"  and  refused  to  "communicate" 
with  him.  Yet  Leovigildd  was  a  great  king  according 
to  his  lights,  sat  on  a  raised  throne  among  his  long- 
haired chiefs,  and  had  money  coined  in  his  name  bear- 
ing an  effigy  of  himself  Even  now  a  dim  halo  of  the 
pomp  of  the  Basileus  seems  to  shine  around  him,  as  we 
picture  him  wearing  the  Gothic  crown,  clothed  in  an 
ermine  mantle,  with  the  purple  sandals  of  empire  on 
his  feet. 

How  early  is  the  religion  of  peace  turned  to  strife! 
We  are  in  the  sixth  century  among  a  new  race,  and 
already  the  flames  of  persecution  are  blazing.  Two 
parties  divide  the  kingdom,  "the  bigots"  and  "the  Ro- 
manisers,"  degenerate  Goths,  who  aspire  in  dress  and 
manners  to  ape  the  culture  of  Byzantium,  as  opposed 
to  the  cloddish  habits  of  the  "bigots/'  content  to  know 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  1 5 

how  to  master  a  horse,  draw  the  long  bow,  launch  the 
javelin  and  follow  their  king  to  batde.  Whether  this 
type  of  original  Goth  would  have  brought  back  the  wor- 
ship of  Thor  and  Woden  does  not  appear.  At  least 
under  these  idols  there  was  unity;  the  sacrifice  of  human 
victims  formed  a  convenient  method  of  getting  rid  of 
prisoners,  and  the  temporary  altars  among  migratory 
tribes,  served  by  male  and  female  priests,  were  simple 
and  convenient. 

But  Recaredo,  on  his  accession,  settled  the  question 
by  becoming  (like  the  mass  of  his  subjects)  a  Catholic, 
after  a  synod  of  sixty-seven  bishops,  held  at  Toledo, 
had  solemnly  decided  in  favour  of  the  orthodoxy  of 
that  Church.  Perhaps  his  religious  divergences  might 
not  have  been  so  unquestioningly  accepted,  had  he  not 
defeated  King  Gouteran  and  60,000  Franks.  A  Goth 
must  know  how  to  fight,  or  he  was  nothing;  and  thus  it 
came  to  pass  that  the  theology  of  a  commander,  brave 
enough  to  hurl  destruction  on  his  foes,  was  thankfully 
accepted. 

Unlike  the  majority  of  his  predecessors,  Recaredo 
died  in  his  bed  (a.d.  601),  applauded  by  all  men  for 
his  wisdom  in  completing  the  union  of  the  conquered 
Iberians  with  the  Goths,  and  forming  what  was  destined 
to  become  the  future  kingdom  of  Spain. 


Eleven  kings  pass,  and  now  (a.d.  680)  Recesvinto, 
whom  all  men  loved,  son  of  Chindavinto,  lies  dead  upon^ 
a  bed  of  state,  raised  on  a  dais,  draped  with  purple 
hangings;  the  four  pillars  of  the  canopy  are  plated  with 
sheets  of  gold,  and  a  crown  formed  by  strings  of  jewels, 


1 6  OLD    COURT  LIFE   IN   SPAIN. 

depeiiding  from   a  circlet  set  with  uncut  stones,   hangs 
over  his  head. 

So  bushy  and  matted  is  his  hair  —  worn  in  the 
fashion  of  the  Goths,  in  long  loose  curls — and  so  thick 
his  beard,  that  the  sunken  features  of  the  good  old  king 
are  almost  hidden.  For  twenty-three  years  Recesvinto 
had  reigned  in  peace,  and  now  he  lies  in  honoured 
death,  while  gathered  around  him  is  such  pomp  as  the 
nation  possesses  of  golden  crome  and  kingly  insignia; 
ermine-lined  robe,  and  silken  vest,  sandals  and  buskins 
laced  with  gold,  the  baton  of  command  and  the  Gothic 
sceptre  long  borne  in  battle  by  their  kings. 

The  vaulted  chamber  in  which  he  lies  in  the  castle 
of  Gerticos  is  lined  with  planks  of  shining  pine,  on 
which  some  rude  embroidery  is  stretched.  The  hollowed 
roof  is  formed  of  thick  beams  and  rafters,  and  huge 
fireplaces  flank  either  end,  filled  now  with  strong-smell- 
ing herbs,  rosemary  and  wild  myrtle,  lavender  and  thyme, 
loose  sprigs  of  which,  with  yew  and  cypress,  are  strewn 
on  the  rudely  worked  counterpane  which  covers  the 
corpse.  Broadswords  with  huge  hilts  are  crossed  upon 
the  walls,  along  with  solidly  embossed  shields  and 
heavily-topped  lances,  the  implements  of  the  chase,  and 
skins  of  wolves  and  deer,  which  have  fallen  by  the 
prowess  of  those  royal  hands,  now  l>ing  white  and  cold 
in  death,  crossed  on  his  breast,  clasping  a  crucifix! 
Saddles  too,  and  the  silver  trappings  of  his  war-horse, 
,are  there,  and  Runic  bracelets,  collars  and  buckles;  all 
the  paraphernalia  of  a  Gothic  chief,  come  down  from 
Dacian  ancestors,  ranged  on  tables  full  in  the  crimson 
rays  of  the  setting  sun,  streaming  through  the  small  bars 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  I7 

of  the  uncurtained  casements,  and  illuminating  each 
detail  in  flickering  patches  as  of  flame. 

On  an  oaken  bench  an  altar  has  been  raised  to  re- 
ceive his  last  confession,  devoutly  made,  as  he  felt  death 
approaching.  The  Eucharist  is  still  present  in  a  jewelled 
box,  the  cup,  platter,  and  crucifix,  while  priests  and 
acolytes,  in  stoles  and  copes,  offer  up  silent  prayers  for 
his  departed  soul.  Clouds  of  incense  darken  the  room 
and  mount  into  the  lofty  vaulting  of  the  roof  in  huge 
shadowy  masses,  which  to  the  superstitious  mind  might 
shape  into  the  outlines  of  dead  Gothic  kings,  hovering 
over  the  form  of  the  royal  brother  who  has  joined  them 
in  the  world  beyond. 

Around  the  chamber  are  gathered  the  warriors  and 
chiefs  who  have  followed  him  in  battle,  habited  in  the 
full  loose  garments  of  peace,  bound  in  with  girdles  and 
waistbands.  Tall,  strong  men,  with  blue  eyes  and  fair 
skins,  who,  by  their  dress,  might  be  mistaken  for  Roman 
senators,  save  for  the  pervading  colour  of  their  abundant 
hair,  passing  from  every  tint  of  pale  straw  colour  to  a 
dull  red,  their  bare  arms  circled  with  bracelets  and 
amulets,  on  which,  spite  of  Christian  doctrine,  charms 
and  cabalistic  signs  are  engraved. 

Chief  among  them  stands  Hilderic,  Governor  of 
Nimes  (for  the  south  of  France  up  to  the  centre  is 
Gothic),  a  massive,  large-limbed  man  of  brutal  courage, 
whose  life  has  passed  in  feuds  and  battles  with  Franks 
and  Basques,  never  hesitating  at  any  act  of  cruelty  that 
would  extend  his  power.  A  fierce  crimson  hue  is  on 
his  broad  face  from  constant  exposure,  and  there  are 
scars  on  neck  and  cheek,  calculated  to  inspire  sympathy 
with   his   courage,   if  his   ferocious   expression   did  not 

Old  Court  Life  in  Spain.   I.  2 


1 8  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

turn  them  rather  into  a  cause  of  dread.  Beside  him 
stands  Gunhild  of  Maguelonne,  a  turbulent  soldier  of 
inferior  position,  wanting  in  the  authority  assumed  by 
Hilderic. 

Both  these  ambitious  chiefs  have  been  intriguing  for 
the  crown,  as  Recesvinto  grew  old,  hating  each  other 
bitterly  while  he  lived,  and  now  that  he  is  dead,  bear- 
ing themselves  with  an  irreverent  indifference  painful  to 
behold,  talking  in  loud  whispers  to  those  about,  and 
laughing  at  rude  jokes,  specially  Hilderic,  who  stands 
apart  stroking  the  head  of  a  favourite  wolf-dog  of 
gigantic  size. 

Beside  them  is  a  Greek,  Paul  by  name,  who  has 
made  his  way  into  favour  by  extraordinary  valour.  Of 
his  origin  no  one  is  certain;  of  polished  exterior,  his 
superior  civilisation  is  apparent  in  manners  and  in  dress, 
much  more  gaudy  and  ornate  than  that  of  the  rest.  A 
mantle  of  fine  blue  cloth  falls  in  ample  folds  about  his 
graceful  form,  with  a  certain  oriental  amplitude  easy  to 
distinguish,  and  in  his  hand  he  carries  a  scarlet  cap. 

Paul  is  to  head  a  revolution  by-and-by,  under  Hil- 
deric; then,  unsuccessful,  to  be  dragged  by  the  hair  of 
his  head  {more  Gotico),  between  two  horses — friends 
and  allies  to-day,  mortal  enemies  to-morrow — such  is 
the  custom  of  these  chiefs,  often  incited  by  the  rancour 
of  the  women,  who  appear  in  history  as,  if  possible, 
more  bloodthirsty  than  the  men. 

Aetius  is  there  also,  and  Turismundo  and  Sisenanth, 
all  mighty  nobles,  and  placed  modestly  behind  a  noble 
Goth,  verging  into  years,  noticeable  for  the  merciful  dis- 
position expressed  in  his  wrinkled  face;  Wamba  is  his 
name,   the  friend  of  the  oppressed  and  of  the  tillers  of 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  IQ 

the  soil,  poor  slaves  whom  no  man  heeds — even  of  the 
Jews,  whom  he  insists  upon  treating  as  members  of  the 
great  human  family;  a  brave,  determined  man  of  the 
old  Dacian  type,  notable  among  the  fiery  spirits  around. 
As  he  has  great  possessions,  to  which  he  attends  him- 
self, he  is  known  as  "the  farmer,"  in  derision  of  his 
simple  tastes.  Wamba  is  no  kinsman  to  Recesvinto, 
but  a  whisper  has  gone  forth  that  he  is  destined  to  suc- 
ceed him.  The  Church,  at  that  time  most  powerful, 
favours  him,  and  he  is  the  only  chief  present  whose  re- 
cord is  free  from  crime.  Many  and  many  a  time  he 
has  fought  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the  king  who  now 
lies  dead.  To  him  the  funeral  chamber  brings  a  genuine 
sorrow — not  even  pretended  by  the  rest — and  as  he 
gazes  on  the  features  of  his  friend,  tears  rise  and 
moisten  his  eyes. 

Behind  Wamba  stands  his  beloved  follower,  Ervig, 
a  youth  whose  olive-complexioned  face  and  clear  brown 
eyes  show  alien  blood.  His  mother,  a  Gothic  princess, 
was  kinswoman  to  King  Chindavinto,  but  his  father  was 
a  Greek.  As  yet  no  one  reads  the  unscrupulous  ambi- 
tion of  his  soul.  Indeed,  he  hardly  realises  it  himself. 
Crime  lies  often  dormant  in  seemingly  innocent  natures, 
until  occasion  discovers  it.  The  evil  spirit  within  him 
is  to  be  developed  by  the  indulgence  of  his  patron 
Wamba,  who,  unknowingly,  is  warming  a  serpent  in  his 
breast. 

All  present  fall  back  as  Julianus,  the  Archbishop  of 
Toledo,  enters.  He  has  hurried  from  Toledo  to  be  pre- 
sent ere  the  old  king  breathed  his  last.  But  death  waits 
for  no  man.  As  he  enters  the  homely  chamber  of  death 
with  an  overwhelming  majesty  of  look  and  manner,  his 

2* 


20  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

cold,  impassive  glance  dominates  them  all.  Nor  is  the 
dignity  of  costume  wanting.  His  monastic  mantle  is 
secured  at  the  neck  by  a  golden  clasp,  and  drapes 
heavily  about  him;  the  sleeves  of  his  tunic  are  lined 
with  precious  fur.  On  his  finger  is  the  pastoral  ring, 
and  from  his  neck  is  suspended  a  jewelled  cross.  A 
dress  at  once  simple  and  costly,  answering  to  the  im- 
perious expression  of  his  face,  looking  out  from  the 
folds  of  a  dark  silken  cowl,  which  falls  back  from  his 
head,  his  deeply-sunk  eyes  taking  in  at  a  glance  all  the 
details  around  him. 

Julianus  is  the  foremost  prelate  in  learning  and 
power  the  Goths  ever  had.  Next,  indeed,  in  historical 
importance  to  Isidor  of  Seville,  though  much  earlier  in 
point  of  date;  his  influence  and  preponderance  are  at 
this  time  supreme.  Possibly  he  was  by  birth  a  Jew, 
though  early  attached  to  the  Chapter  of  Toledo.  A 
churchman  of  great  literary  gifts,  restless,  unscrupulous, 
ambitious;  the  very  Hildebrand  of  those  early  times, 
who  raised  the  see  of  Toledo  to  a  position  of  unparal- 
leled supremacy,  presiding  during  his  life  at  various 
councils  most  important  in  the  history  of  the  mediaeval 
church. 

The  archbishop  is  attended  by  his  secretary,  a  lay 
brother,  habited  in  black,  carrying  papers,  who  (as  re- 
flecting the  tyranny  of  his  master)  stands,  without  daring 
to  raise  his  eyes,  more  like  an  automaton  than  a  living 
man. 

The  only  one  whom  the  archbishop  condescends  to 
notice  among  the  assembly  is  Wamba,  who  holds  him- 
self somewhat  apart  from  the  rest.  He  at  once  singles 
him   out   and   salutes   him   with  a  profound   obeisance 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  21 

which  Wamba,  without  evincing  any  surprise,  returns  in 
silence. 

To  look  on  the  face  of  the  dead  is  a  duty  among 
these  savage  races,  who  believe  that  the  soul  of  the 
departed  lingers  for  awhile  about  its  tenement  of  clay. 
But  there  is  another  and  more  powerful  incentive  which 
has  assembled  these  chiefs  from  the  far-off  provinces  of 
the  kingdom. 

Round  the  bed  of  the  dead  king  they  stand  to 
choose  his  successor.  Absolute  silence  reigns.  Each 
man  is  jealous  of  his  neighbour,  and  convinced  that  his 
own  claims  will  prevail.  Especially  is  this  the  case 
with  Hilderic,  who  has  a  secret  compact  with  the  Jews 
fled  from  oppression  in  the  south  of  Spain  to  his  govern- 
ment of  Narbonne,  and  he  knows  that  they  will  glady 
furnish  him  with  funds  to  harass  the  Christian  nobles. 

At  last  the  voice  of  the  archbishop  is  raised  to  break 
the  strange  hush  around. 

"Chiefs  and  nobles  of  the  Gothic  nation,"  he  says, 
in  a  tone  of  authority,  while  all  eyes  are  fixed  on  him, 
"the  king  who  lies  here  reigned  in  peace  according  to 
the  Gospel.  I  am  not  come  to  make  his  funeral  oration. 
All  present  know  his  good  deeds  and  the  moderation 
of  his  rule.  For  twenty-three  years  the  sword  of  the 
Goth  has  rested  in  the  scabbard.  But  this  calm  cannot 
continue.  An  able  man  must  succeed  him.  One" — 
and  as  he  spoke  the  silken  cowl  fell  altogether  back, 
displaying  the  powerful  lines  of  his  tonsured  head,  the 
broad  intellectual  'brow  and  the  erectness  of  command 
— "One,  I  say,  alone  is  worthy,  and  that  is  Wamba. 
He  has  no  enemies." 

As  a  long-drawn  breath  of  eager  expectation  looses 


22  OLD   COURT  LIFE   IN  SPAIN. 

itself  with  a  distinct  note  of  relief,  so  did  a  low  sound 
pass  through  the  dead  chamber  as  Julianus  spoke.  On 
every  countenance  came  an  expression  of  astonishment, 
but  it  was  astonishment  unmixed  with  opposition  or 
anger.  A  relief  indeed  to  pent-up  feelings,  which  finally 
found  vent  in  a  burst  of  loud  applause,  each  man  fall- 
ing back  instinctively  to  where  Wamba  had  placed 
himself  at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Then,  as  with  one 
voice,  came  the  response, — 

"Yes,  Wamba!    He  shall  be  our  king!" 

"But,"  cries  Wamba,  his  wrinkled  face  working  with 
emotion,  as  he  advanced  quickly  to  where  Julianus 
stood,  "my  consent  is  needful  to  this  proposal.  Now  I 
refuse  it.  I  am  not  of  an  age  to  rule  over  my  valorous 
countrymen.  I  am  old,  I  am  unworthy.  The  strength 
of  my  arm  is  gone.  I  am  unfit  to  lead  the  dauntless 
Goths  to  battle." 

"Then  rule  over  them  at  home,"  is  the  short  re- 
joinder of  the  archbishop.  "In  a  nation  of  soldiers  a 
peaceful  sovereign  is  best  You  are  great  in  wisdom, 
O  Wamba!  Recesvinto  was  no  warrior,  and  we  are  here 
to  mourn  his  loss." 

"Yes,"  replies  Hilderic,  secretly  rejoiced  at  the 
choice  of  Julianus,  as  from  the  age  of  Wamba  he  will 
have  time  and  occasion  to  complete  his  treacherous 
plans  before  the  new  king's  probable  death,  for  to 
Hilderic  Wamba  appeared  an  aged  visionary,  easy  to  be 
put  aside  when  opportunity  was  ripe,  a  convenient  stop- 
gap for  a  time — "Yes,  Wamba,  you  are  the  only  man 
we  will  accept  without  bloodshed." 

"Impossible!"   cries  Wamba,   his   cheeks  reddening 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  2^ 

with  anger.  "I  will  accept  nothing  which  I  cannot 
righteously  fulfil.     I  am  unfit  to  reign." 

"No,  no!"  exclaims  Ervig,  casting  his  arms  about 
his  patron's  neck,  and  affectionately  saluting  him.  "Good- 
ness and  wisdom  are  the  best,  and  those  are  yours,  dear 
master." 

"We  win  have  you!  Speak!  Consent!"  came  as 
one  word  from  the  circle  of  nobles.  "You  dare  not 
refuse  the  will  of  the  chiefs,"  cry  all,  gathering  round 
him,  each  more  or  less  approving  the  choice  on  the 
same  grounds  as  did  Hilderic,  or  as  considering  Wamba 
an  easy  ruler,  under  whom  every  man  would  be  his  own 
master.  Already  the  brows  of  some  begin  to  darken  at 
his  continued  refusal. 

"Choose  some  younger  man,"  he  persists,  struggling 
from  the  hands  which  are  now  laid  on  him;  "one  better 
fitted  for  the  arduous  duties  of  your  king.  Look  at 
me,"  and  he  raises  his  grey  locks  and  bares  his  furrowed 
forehead,  "I  am  long  past  my  prime."  As  he  speaks 
he  is  retreating  as  best  he  can  towards  the  door,  when 
the  fiery  Hilderic,  seizing  him  with  one  hand,  with  the 
other  brandishes  a  naked  spear. 

"Look  you,  Wamba,"  says  he,  a  dangerous  fire 
kindling  his  eye,  "you  shall  never  leave  this  chamber, 
save  as  a  dead  man,  or  as  our  king." 

"Dead,  or  as  our  king,"  came  as  a  war-cry  from  all 
the  fierce  Goths,  closing  round  him  with  such  unseem- 
ing  shouts  and  din,  that  it  seemed  as  if  their  rude 
clamour  must  disturb  the  last  sleep  of  the  dead  whose 
presence  all  had  forgotten. 

"You  accept  the  crown  in  the  sight  of  God?" 
demands  the  archbishop  in  a  solemn  voice,   stretching 


24  OLD   COURT  LIFE  LV  SPAIN. 

forth  his  hands  towards  Wamba,  who,  perceiving  that 
further  opposition  was  useless,  bows  his  head.  "Then 
at  this  altar  let  us  offer  up  our  thanksgivings.  The 
Church  is  with  you,  Wamba."  And  Julianus  turns  to 
the  oaken  table  on  which  stands  the  Host,  and  falling 
upon  his  knees,  with  the  priests  and  acolytes  around, 
followed  by  all  those  fierce  spirits  quelled  for  an  instant 
by  the  might  of  his  power. 

"And,"  says  Wamba,  as  last  of  all  that  assembly  he 
slowly  bends  his  knee  in  the  place  of  honour  reserved 
for  him  next  to  the  archbishop,  "countrymen!  let  your 
prayers  be  for  me  also,  that  I  may  not  be  deemed  un- 
worthy!" 

Again  the  incense  rose  in  shadowy  clouds,  filling  the 
chamber  with  strange  outlines.  Again  the  voices  of  the 
priests  rise  and  fall,  and  human  interests  are  lulled  for 
awhile  in  the  presence  of  the  dead  king.  Again  the 
chiefs  remember  for  a  brief  moment  his  just  and  tran- 
quil reign,  and  many  prayers  are  recited  with  apparent 
fervour  for  the  repose  of  his  soul. 

Within  nineteen  days  after  the  election  of  his  suc- 
cessor, Recesvinto  was  buried  and  Wamba  crowned  by 
Julianus  in  the  Cathedral  of  Toledo.  All  Spain  was 
jubilant,  for  he  was  a  blameless  man;  indeed  a  fond 
remembrance  yet  clings  to  his  name  at  Toledo.  The 
words  "Tietnpo  del  Rey  Wamba"  still  point  to  some 
lingering  impression  of  national  prosperity  and  of  a  time 
of  plenty,  answering  to  the  days  of  the  "Saxon  kings" 
in  England.  And  Wamba  was  indeed  no  imbecile,  or 
weak-handed  in  war,  as  Hilderic  and  his  friend  the 
Greek  Paul  pretended,  when,  helped  by  the  Jews,  they 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  25 

broke  into  rebellion.  He  was  a  warrior  indeed,  who, 
though  old,  could  lead  the  Goths  to  victory  and  punish 
his  enemies  by  slaughter  and  torture  as  was  the  habit 
of  his  nation.  After  which  "the  Farmer  King,"  as  he 
was  affectionately  called,  to  indicate  his  simple  tastes 
and  care  for  the  neglected  serfs,  returned  to  Toledo  to 
enjoy  his  triumph,  descending  the  hill  to  the  cathedral, 
through  the  narrow  streets,  much  as  we  see  them  now, 
followed  by  a  long  procession  of  captive  Basques  with 
shaven  heads,  a  signal  mark  of  humiliation  to  the 
abundant-haired  Goths  (the  rebel  Paul,  in  impious 
mockery,  decorated  with  a  leather  crown,  stuck  on  his 
head  with  melted  pitch,  and  a  sceptre  of  reeds  in  his 
hand),  to  be  received  by  the  Archbishop  Julianus  under 
the  sculptures  of  the  Gate,  at  the  head  of  his  clergy. 

But  the  decline  of  native  valour  had  gone  too  far 
for  any  single  man  to  stem  the  downward  tide.  The 
free  constitution  of  the  Nomad  tribes  had  given  place 
to  a  military  despotism,  alternating  with,  and  controlled 
by,  a  bigoted  priesthood.  The  tremendous  superiority 
oif  Julianus  delayed  for  a  time  this  downward  course, 
but  could  not  arrest  it.  Even  his  iron  will  could  not 
stop  the  decadence  of  a  nation.  Each  chief — or  duke 
{duoc) — was  king  in  his  own  district,  and  free  to  lead  a 
life  of  idleness  and  crime.  If  the  Goths  still  fought 
well,  it  was  only  against  each  other,  or  when  pressed 
by  necessity  to  arrest  the  inroads  of  the  Franks,  a  much 
more  masculine  nation  than  themselves. 

In  the  south,  the  Moors  were  eagerly  watching  for 
some  chance  of  crushing  out  the  Northmen.  At  home, 
the  Jews,  persecuted,  ill-treated  and  numerous,  were 
ready  to  join  with  every  rebel,  and  to  welcome  any  in- 


26  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

vader,  while,  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of  the  king,  the 
freedmen,  sunk  in  hopeless  slavery,  tilled  the  land  for 
their  masters  and  lived  like  the  beasts  of  the  field.  All 
who  possessed  more  than  themselves  or  who  amassed 
riches  were  exposed  to  the  envious  rapacity  of  the 
nobles. 

Thus  the  nation  was  threatened  with  destruction  on 
all  sides,  yet  so  short-sighted  and  effete  had  the  Goths 
become,  that,  deluded  with  the  semblance  of  a  false 
peace,  they  lived  as  they  listed,  unconscious  of  the  ruin 
gathering  around. 

For  a  time  all  went  well  with  Wamba.  The  vigour 
of  his  government  had  been  a  surprise  to  those  who 
had  elected  him,  to  none  more  than  the  archbishop 
himself,  who  little  expected  to  find  a  ruler  of  such 
determination  in  the  modest-minded  chief  No  woman 
swayed  his  councils,  neither  wife,  daughter  nor  leman. 
All  his  love  was  centred  in  Ervig,  whom  he  constantly 
advanced  step  by  step  to  fresh  honours  and  commands. 
So  much  was  Wamba  beloved  by  the  people  and  nation, 
that  the  erudite  but  ambitious  Julianus,  still  hoping  to 
govern  him  with  courtly  flattery,  wrote  his  panegyiic  in 
the  " Storia  Wamba,"  extolling  him  as  the  pattern  of  a 
Christian  hero;  and  Ervig,  who  had  developed  into  a 
subtle  statesman,  greatly  favoured  by  the  archbishop, 
helped  him  to  turn  the  elegant  sentences. 

When  Julianus  had  declared  on  Wamba's  election 
that  "the  Church  was  with  him,"  it  was  in  the  belief 
that  he  was  dealing  with  a  weak  old  man  whom  he 
could  blindly  lead.  He  never  dreamed  that  he  would 
dare  to  touch  the  privileges  of  his  order.  Perhaps 
Wamba  thought  so  himself  before  power  imposed  duties 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  2*J 

on  his  conscience.  But  when  he  insisted  on  keeping 
the  clergy  in  check,  and  exercised  his  prerogative  in 
enacting  new  laws  of  reform,  Julianus  secretly  resolved 
on  his  destruction.  Imbued  with  the  spirit  of  the  Roman 
pontiffs,  he  would  permit  no  meddling  of  the  secular 
arm  with  his  authority.  Even  the  king,  according  to 
JuHanus,  must  submit  to  the  decrees  of  the  great 
councils  which  he,  as  archbishop,  was  so  fond  of  calling 
together,  and  which  were  destined  to  make  his  name 
famous  throughout  the  world. 

To  effect  the  downfall  of  Wamba  a  tool  was  needed, 
and  that  tool  was  Ervig.  Striking  with  a  master  hand 
on  the  baser  chords  of  his  nature,  vanity  and  ambition, 
the  relentless  archbishop  crushed  out  of  him  every  spark 
of  gratitude  and  love  and  moulded  him  to  his  hand  as 
the  potter  moulds  the  clay. 

"It  is  for  the  salvation  of  the  Church  of  God," 
whispered  Julianus,  "a  holy  deed.  It  is  Wamba  who  is 
the  Judas,  not  you,  my  son,"  in  answer  to  Ervig's  feeble 
arguments.  "Wamba  has  basely  betrayed  his  master, 
and  must  be  cast  out  as  a  brand  to  the  burning!  You 
are  of  royal  blood,  Wamba  is  but  a  hireling.  Instead 
of  standing  as  second  to  the  throne,  it  is  your  right  to 
mount  it,  and  prove  to  this  backslider  that  the  same 
hand  which  crowned  him  can  cast  him  down." 

"But  you  will  spare  his  Hfe,"  pleaded  Ervig,  pricked 
sorely  in  his  conscience  in  spite  of  the  casuistry  of  the 
archbishop. 

"That  will  be  in  the  hands  of  the  Lord,"  answered 
the  arrogant  priest.  "I  am  but  the  instrument  of  the 
Most  High." 


28  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

Wamba  did  not  live  in  the  fortress  over  the  city  of 
Toledo,  the  present  Alcazar,  but  in  a  palace  near  the 
church  now  called  Juan  de  los  Reyes,  situated  on  a 
plateau  overlooking  the  Tagus,  and  lower  down  in  the 
town  among  the  citizens.  Instinctively  he  was  conscious 
of  a  change  in  Ervig.  He  shunned  him,  he  was  short 
and  reticent  in  his  replies,  assumed  a  haughty  indif- 
ference to  his  commands,  and  so  openly  opposed  the 
new  clerical  laws  that  Wamba  severely  reproved  him. 
After  which  a  strange  thing  happened.  Wamba  fell 
into  a  deep  sleep,  sitting  in  the  hall  of  his  palace,  lulled 
by  the  ripple  of  the  river  far  below;  a  stupor,  rather 
than  a  sleep,  for  he  could  not  be  aroused. 

"The  hand  of  God  is  upon  him,"  cried  the  false 
Ervig,  whom  the  attendants  had  summoned.  "Call  the 
archbishop.     He  must  not  die  unshriven." 

When  consciousness  returned,  Wamba  found  himself 
habited  as  a  monk,  with  a  dark  cowl  over  his  eyes, 
lying  on  a  wooden  tressle,  more  like  a  bier  than  a 
resting-place  for  a  living  man.  The  walls  around  were 
bare  and  discoloured  with  mildew,  a  dim  uncertain  light 
fell  on  his  face  from  a  narrow  window  too  high  in  the 
wall  to  reveal  anything  without.  A  terrible  oppression 
overwhelmed  him;  he  could  scarcely  open  his  eyes,  and 
every  limb  seemed  paralysed. 

Whether  the  sleeping  potion  administered  by  Ervig 
had  not  been  potent  enough  to  end  life,  or  whether  the 
strength  of  his  constitution  had  resisted  its  full  action, 
no  man  will  ever  know.  Gradually,  as  his  senses  re- 
turned, he  understood  the  treason  of  which  he  was  the 
victim.  He  was  in  a  monk's  dress,  and,  according  to 
the  Gothic  law,  whoever  once  assumes  the  ecclesiastical 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  2g 

habit  is  dead  to  actual  life.  As  far  as  his  kingly  office 
was  concerned  they  might  as  well  have  sealed  him  in 
a  tomb,  and  read  the  prayers  for  the  dead  over  him! 

"And  Ervig  had  done  this!  Ervig!"  For  he  dimly 
remembered  a  drink  which  Ervig  had  at  his  request 
offered  him  before  he  fell  asleep.  In  that  moment 
more  than  the  bitterness  of  death  passed  over  him. 
Death  brings  forgetfulness.  Wamba's  returning  senses 
came  with  an  agonised  recalling  of  all  his  former  life, 
out  of  which  rose  the  image  of  that  one  false  friend 
whom  he  had  so  loved  and  trusted.  Moment  by  mo- 
ment all  became  clear;  Ervig  had,  during  his  swoon, 
clothed  him  as  a  monk.     He  was  dethroned! 

Suddenly  the  door  of  the  cell  opens,  and  the  stately 
figure  of  the  archbishop  appears.  With  straight  swift 
strides  he  advances  to  where  Wamba  lay;  his  priestly 
robe  drooping  around  him  with  a  heavy  patrician  grace, 
his  ebon  hair  falling  over  his  ample  brow,  a  veil  to  the 
glittering  eyes  beneath  which  burned  with  an  evil  fire. 
Like  a  phantom  he  stands  over  the  prostrate  king — his 
form  in  shadow,  sombrely  defined  against  the  window, 
and  in  an  instant  all  the  cell  seems  to  palpitate  with 
life;  the  walls  animate  with  the  expectant  eyes  of 
monks  placed  there  to  watch  the  swoon  of  the  king — 
a  dark  and  sinister  background  revealed  by  the  scanty 
light,  in  which  Julianus  dominates  like  some  wicked 
giant  about  to  pounce  upon  his  prey. 

Ervig  is  beside  him,  standing  with  averted  looks 
that  he  might  not  meet  the  gaze  of  Wamba,  who  still 
lay  with  half  closed  eyes,  passively  watching  the  move- 
ments of  his  enemies. 

Was  it  to  be  life  or  death?    He  cared  not!    A  chill 


30  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

as  of  death  curdled  his  blood.  The  cell  whirled  and 
a  mighty  darkness  reeled  down  upon  him.  Wounded 
to  the  quick,  he  would  not  even  condescend  to  ex- 
postulate. Before  such  base  treachery  his  righteous 
soul  revolted.  They  had  him  in  their  power,  let  them 
wreak  their  will.  His  life  was  done,  his  reign  ended. 
Against  the  law  under  which  he  lay  there  was  no 
appeal.  Shut  up  in  a  subterranean  prison  how  could 
he  communicate  with  any  who  might  dare  to  restore 
him  to  his  throne?  It  was  subtly  planned,  and  by  a 
master  mind! 

Wamba  was,  however,  the  first  to  break  silence. 
He  heaves  a  deep  sigh  and  opens  his  eyes,  passing  his 
hands  slowly  over  his  face,  ghastly  under  the  effects  of 
the  poison.  "You  have  been  a  false  friend  to  me,"  he 
says,  addressing  himself,  not  to  the  archbishop,  but  to 
the  muffled  figure  which  stands  behind  him.  "You 
have  returned  evil  for  good.  In  what  have  I  injured 
you?"  His  voice  is  low,  but  he  speaks  with  the  calm- 
ness of  one  who  has  already  passed  the  gates  of  death. 

"Accuse  not  Ervig,"  answers  the  archbishop,  in  a 
tone  of  lofty  command,  placing  himself  before  Wamba, 
so  as  to  fill  with  his  ample  draperies  the  narrow  space 
of  light.  "It  is  the  Holy  Church  in  my  person  you 
have  offended.  As  an  unfaithful  son  you  are  cast  out. 
Ervig  has  but  done  his  duty,  for  you,  Wamba,  are  a 
recreant  unfit  to  reign." 

"And  does  the  duty  of  Ervig  lead  him  to  succeed 
me?"  asks  Wamba,  raising  himself  painfully  from  the 
pallet  and  leaning  forward,  so  that  the  outlines  of  his 
sunken  features  appear  under  the  cowl. 

"It   does,"    answers   Julianus,    still    shielding   Ervig 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  3 1 

from  the  glance  of  contempt  which  shot  from  the  eyes 
of  Wamba. 

"It  is  well,"  is  the  answer.  "You  made  me  king, 
Julianus,  against  my  will.  Now,  against  my  will,  you 
unmake  me.  Poor  and  wretched  instrument,"  he  adds, 
raising  his  hand  towards  Ervig,  who  was  crouching  in 
the  shadow  near  the  wall,  "beware  how  you  cross 
Julianus.  Take  example  by  me,  and  let  no  love  for 
the  Goth  tempt  you  to  do  justice  to  the  people." 

"Dare  not  to  question  the  judgment  of  God,"  ex- 
claims the  archbishop,  an  expression  of  lofty  scorn 
lighting  up  the  evil  brilliancy  of  his  deeply  sunken  eyes. 
"To  Ervig  you  owe  your  life.  I  would  have  flung  you 
into  the  fires  of  purgatory  to  purify  your  sinful  soul, 
but  his  counsels  were  of  mercy." 

"I  thank  him  not,"  replies  Wamba.  "I  am  old, 
and  my  time  in  this  world  is  short.  I  would  far  rather 
have  sunk  into  eternal  sleep,  than  lead  the  life  to  which 
you  have  condemned  me." 

So  deeply  moved  was  Ervig,  despite  the  dignity 
which  awaited  him,  that  he  did  not  reply.  His  was  a 
weak,  unworthy  nature,  bad,  but  not  wholly  depraved. 
He  had  been  worked  upon  and  warped  by  the  sophistries 
of  the  unscrupulous  archbishop,  which  now,  in  the  pre- 
sence of  his  benefactor,  seemed  to  lose  all  their  weight. 
Even  his  ambition  to  reign  wavered  for  the  moment  be- 
fore his  remorse,  as  one  who  having  braced  himself  to 
commit  a  crime,  yet  lacks  the  courage  to  carry  out  the 
measure  of  his  iniquity. 

So  evident  was  this,  that,  full  of  the  fear  of  what  his 
affection  for  Wamba  might  prompt  him  to  do,  Julianus 


32  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

brought  the  intemew  to  an  abrupt  end.  Without  an- 
other word  he  passes  out  of  the  cell  followed  by  Ervig, 
and  the  army  of  tonsured  monks,  who  had  borne 
Wamba  in,  now  return  to  watch  his  gradual  return  to 
active  life. 

The  "Farmer  King"  had,  however,  many  friends. 
The  Goths  loved  him,  and  the  Jews  (a  powerful  con- 
tingent, richer  than  all  the  rest),  respected  him.  So 
humble  was  he  in  peace,  so  brilliant  in  war,  and  under 
that  calm  exterior  gifted  with  such  energy  that  he  had 
inspired  the  State  with  a  new  life,  as  the  last  great 
spirit  of  the  old  Dacian  stock,  that  Julianus  became 
seriously  alarmed,  and  hastened  to  call  a  Council  of 
Bishops  to  ratify  the  accession  of  Ervig  to  the  throne. 

The  sentence  which  was  passed  upon  Wamba  was 
thus  worded:  "As  there  are  some  who,  being  clothed 
in  the  garments  of  penitence  when  in  peril  of  death; 
after  having  recovered  claim  that  the  vow  is  not  bind- 
ing— let  all  such  remember  that  they  are  baptized  with- 
out will  or  knowledge,  and  yet  no  man  can  remove 
baptism  without  damnation;  as  it  is  with  baptism,  so 
with  monastic  vows,  and  we  (the  Council)  declare  that 
all  who  violate  this  law  are  worthy  of  the  severest 
punishment,  and  are  incapable  of  holding  any  office  or 
civil  dignity  during  their  natural  lives." 

By  this  it  would  seem  that,  however  the  nation 
clung  to  the  memory  of  the  good  old  king,  yet  these 
once  brave  and  manly  warriors  had  sunk  into  an  in- 
credibly superstitious  and  priest-ridden  nation,  fit  only 
to  be  crushed  in  the  hands  of  the  first  bold  invader, 
and  that  all  this  internal  strife  was  but  as  an  invitation 
to  the  Moors  across  the  Straits,  and  the  Basques  in  the 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  33 

mountains   of   the    north,    to   take    advantage   of   their 
weakness. 

Of  Ervig  it  is  said  that,  after  a  few  years  passed  in 
vassalage  to  Julianus,  remorse  overcame  him,  and  he 
took  to  his  bed  and  died. 

Under  Witica  the  Court  of  Toledo  was  stained  with 
blood.  He  was  an  ignorant,  arrogant  tyrant,  who  only 
understood  present  advantage  to  himself  To  prevent 
possible  rebellion — and  hostile  parties  were  many  and 
ran  high,  as  in  preceding  reigns — he  dismantled  the 
city  walls  and  fortresses,  and  in  his  mad  eagerness  for 
the  security  of  the  throne  murdered  every  kinsman 
whose  life  lay  within  his  hand.  Particularly  was  his 
insane  jealousy  directed  against  his  cousin  Favila,  Dux 
of  Cantabria,  who  was  executed,  and  Witica  had  pre- 
pared the  same  fate  for  his  son  Pelayo,  but  he  escaped 
to  become  later  on  the  saviour  of  his  country  in  driving 
out  the  Moors  from  the  north  of  Spain. 

Then  his  suspicions  paid  themselves  on  another 
kinsman,  the  Gothic  chief  Theodofredo.  His  eyes  were 
put  out,  and  he  was  imprisoned  in  the  damp  vault 
under  the  castle  of  Cordova. 

Half  Mussulman,  and  wholly  brutal,  Witica  in- 
geniously united  the  vices  of  both  nations — the  Iberians 
and  the  Goths — and  indulged  in  such  a  numerous 
harem  as  put  even  the  Moors  to  shame.  In  vain  did 
the  church  thunder  against  this  very  peccant  son. 
JuHanus  was  long  dead.  He  laughed  at  the  threats 
of  the  Pope,  and,  like  his  Gothic  ancestor,  Alaric, 
threatened  to  lay  siege  to  Rome. 

"Why,"  cried  he,  when  presiding  in  the  Chapter  at 

Old  Court  Life  in  Spain.    I.  3 


34  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAlM. 

Toledo,  clothed  in  his  royal  robes,  the  crown  and 
sceptre  beside  him,  in  the  midst  of  the  trembling 
canons,  who  knew  it  was  at  their  life's  peril  to  venture 
to  contradict  him — "Why  shall  not  our  Gothic  damsels 
adorn  themselves  with  the  jewels  of  the  Vatican,  and 
our  coffers  be  replenished  with  the  treasury  of  St. 
Peter's?" 

Incensed  at  the  opposition  of  the  Archbishop  Sin- 
daredo,  who  dared  to  expostulate  with  him,  he  ap- 
pointed his  own  brother  Opas,  at  heart  as  profligate  as 
himself.  Archbishop  of  Seville,  to  take  his  seat  along 
with  Sindaredo  in  the  episcopal  chair  of  Toledo.  (Opas 
was  the  most  unscrupulous  prelate  that  ever  wore  the 
mitre.  Even  Julianus  was  his  inferior  in  secular  power 
for  Opas  was  a  prince,  born  of  the  old  Gothic  stock.) 

"Since  the  Church  of  Toledo  will  not  yield  to  me, 
her  lawful  spouse,"  said  Witica,  with  savage  sarcasm, 
"she  shall,  like  a  harlot,  have  two  husbands — Sindaredo 
and  Opas.  No  foreign  potentate  with  a  triple  crown 
shall  preach  to  me." 

Witica,  bad  as  he  was,  is  yet  entitled  to  be  con- 
sidered as  the  first  reformer.  He  promulgated  a  law 
freeing  the  clergy  from  the  vow  of  celibacy.  No  threats 
or  anathemas  of  any  mitred  Julianus  stopped  him.  No 
obedience  to  monkish  precepts  governed  his  mind.  He 
revelled  in  lawless  licentiousness,  and  in  outraging  the 
pietism  of  the  time.  Of  Witica  it  was  said  that  ''He 
taught  all  Spain  to  sin."  Naturally  the  monkish  chronicles 
have  unmercifully  villified  him.  Yet  there  is  much  of 
the  humoristic  coarseness  of  the  middle  ages  in  his 
character;  a  grotesque  setting  at  naught  of  all  law  and 
" convenance ,"   which  the  fashion  of  politer  times — not 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN.  35 

a  whit  less  vile — softened  and  refined  into  a  quasi- 
elegance  perhaps  more  repulsive. 

While  the  churches  are  closed  under  an  interdict, 
the  altars  bare,  the  people  disarmed,  the  castles  and 
fortresses  dismantled  lest  they  might  harbour  enemies, 
and  disorder  and  sensuality  reign  unchecked  through- 
out the  land,  a  youthful  avenger  is  growing  up  in  the 
person  of  Roderich,  son  of  Theodofredo,  now  dead,  some 
said  murdered,  in  the  gloomy  dungeons  of  Cordoba. 

Of  royal  birth,  reared  and  educated  among  the 
cultivated  Romans,  Roderich  is  not  only  a  brilliant 
knight,  but  a  master  of  all  the  civilisation  of  the  age, 
prompt  at  all  martial  exercise,  of  graceful  and  polished 
manners,  and  eager  to  avenge  the  wrongs  of  his  father 
and  of  the  Goths.  Like  a  meteor,  this  young  hero 
flashes  upon  Spain,  defeats  Witica  "the  Wicked,"  in  a 
pitched  battle,  and  imprisons  him  in  the  same  castle  of 
Cordoba,  where  his  father  had  lately  died.  Not  a  dis- 
sentient voice  is  heard  on  the  battlefield  when  Roderich, 
raised  on  a  shield  by  the  soldiers,  as  was  the  custom  of 
his  ancestors,  and  standing  erect  to  face  the  four  quarters 
of  the  world,  is  proclaimed  King  of  the  Western  Goths, 
in  place  of  the  sons  of  Witica. 

And  now  we  come  on  the  history  of  the  beautiful 
Moor,  Egilona,  daughter  of  the  King  of  Algiers,  who 
was  at  this  time  shipwrecked  on  the  coast  of  Spain  at 
Deina.  As  the  royal  vessel  grounded  on  the  sand  (says 
the  chronicle),  the  rabble  of  Deina — and  what  a  rabble, 
in  all  ages,  is  that  of  Spain,  how  greedy,  how  rapacious 
— rushed  into  the  surf,  to  capture  and  make  spoil.  But 
the  grandeur  of  the  illustrious  company   assembled   on 

3* 


36  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

the  deck  somewhat  awed  them  as  they  paused  with 
greedy  eyes, — men  and  women,  sumptuously  attired, 
facing  them  with  all  the  haughtiness  of  Oriental  dignity. 
In  the  stern,  closely  pressed  within  a  circle  of  her 
Moslem  guards,  stood  a  lovely  princess,  lightly  veiled, 
her  turban  ablaze  with  jewels,  and  as  the  vessel  heaved 
in  upon  the  swell,  and  the  mob  found  themselves  close 
upon  the  strangers,  scimitars  flashed  and  jewelled  daggers 
gleamed.  Then  some  of  the  older  Moors,  understanding 
the  helplessness  of  their  position,  leapt  on  shore,  and 
falling  on  their  knees  before  the  alcaide,  who  stood  by, 
unable  to  understand  the  meaning  of  what  he  saw,  im- 
plored his  mercy  towards  a  royal  princess. 

"She  whom  you  behold,"  said  one  sumptuously  robed 
African,  who  seemed  to  lead  the  expedition,  his  brow 
covered  by  a  green  turban,  on  which  glittered  an  aigrette 
of  inestimable  worth,  "is  the  only  daughter  of  the  King 
of  Algiers,  whom  we  are  conducting  to  her  affianced 
husband,  the  King  of  Tunis.  Foul  winds,  as  you  see, 
have  driven  us  on  your  coast.  We  were  compelled  to 
make  for  land,  or  imperil  the  life  of  our  inimitable  mis- 
tress. Allah  has  preserved  her.  Do  you,  Sefior  Alcaide, 
not  prove  more  cruel  than  the  waves." 

The  alcaide,  a  worthy  man,  much  overcome  by  the 
magnificence  of  these  sea-borne  guests,  bowed  his  head 
in  acquiescence,  and  called  on  his  alguazils  to  keep  off 
the  crowd.  "I  will  myself  conduct  your  princess  to  the 
castle,"  he  replied  to  the  noble  Moor  who  had  addressed 
him.  "Let  her  freely  tread  the  Spanish  soil.  It  shall 
be  to  her  as  safe  as  the  African  land  of  her  fathers." 

"The  castle!"  cried  the  same  dazzling  Moor  who 
had  already  spoken,  stopping  the  alcaide  short.     "The 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  37 

castle!  You  would  then  treat  this  regal  bride  as  a 
captive?  By  the  tomb  of  the  Prophet,  Senor  Alcaide, 
you  do  ill!  Know  that  her  ransom  will  be  to  you,  and 
to  your  race  for  ever,  riches  incalculable,  such  as  the 
genii  in  dreams  bear  to  the  faithful — if  you  deal  well 
with  her  and  let  her  go." 

Another  and  another  of  the  circle  of  superbly-robed 
strangers  also  spoke. 

"All  we  have  is  yours,  Sir  Alcaide." 

The  fair  captive  herself  held  out  her  hands  in  sup- 
plication towards  the  excellent  magistrate,  who  stood 
perplexed,  as  divided  between  duty  and  inclination. 

"Will  you,"  she  asked,  in  a  soft  voice,  "imprison 
one  whom  the  sea  has  set  free?  " 

In  vain!  The  honesty  of  this  Spanish  official  is  a 
record  to  all  time.  He  was  a  Goth  of  the  old  school, 
and  cared  neither  for  jewels  nor  gold.  Much  as  it 
moved  him  to  withstand  the  entreaties  of  so  beautiful  a 
creature,  his  sense  of  duty  conquered. 

"Sir  Moslem,"  he  answered,  afraid  at  first  to  ad- 
dress himself  directly  to  the  lady  with  a  churlish  re- 
fusal, but  singling  out  the  illustrious  Moor,  whose  words 
and  presence  showed  him  to  be  of  exalted  rank,  "and 
you,  fair  and  virtuous  lady,  whom  the  storm  has  drifted 
on  our  shores,  greatly  does  it  grieve  me  to  say  you 
nay,  but  my  loyalty  to  my  sovereign,  Don  Roderich, 
leaves  m.e  no  choice.  This  princess," — pointing  to  the 
lady,  who  had  sunk  back  fainting  in  the  arms  of  her 
attendants,  as  soon  as  she  was  convinced  of  her  failure 
to  move  the  alcaide — "is  a  royal  captive,  whom  chance 
has  landed  within  the  Gothic  realm.  Don  Roderich 
can   alone   decide   her   fate.     Within   the  castle  I  com- 


38  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN. 

mand   let   her   seek  shelter  and  repose,    more  I  cannot 
promise." 

To  the  court  at  Toledo  the  beautiful  African  jour- 
neyed, shedding  many  tears.  To  the  Eastern  mind  she 
was  a  slave,  awaiting  the  will  of  her  new  master.  Yet 
it  was  refreshing  to  her  feelings  to  be  received  in  every 
town  and  castle  with  royal  honours,  to  be  still  sur- 
rounded by  her  Moorish  court,  and  to  travel  mounted 
on  a  snow-white  palfrey,  the  wonder  and  astonishment 
of  all  who  beheld  her.  Slave  though  she  was,  her 
head  was  carried  high  as  one  accustomed  to  receive 
homage.  Her  clear,  dark  eyes,  sparkling  and  mild, 
shone  out  under  the  strongly  marked  eyebrows  of  the 
East,  profuse  braids  of  black  hair  hung  loosely  about 
her  neck,  tinkling  with  golden  coins;  a  veil  of  silver 
tissue  was  twined  about  her  head,  to  be  drawn  over 
the  face  and  bosom  at  pleasure,  under  a  turban,  to 
which  a  diadem  was  attached,  decked  with  bright 
feathers;  a  long  tunic,  woven  in  the  looms  of  her 
country,  heavy  with  pearls,  and  trousers  of  a  trans- 
parent fabric  descended  to  her  feet,  incased  in  delicate 
slippers,  a  loose  mantle  of  changing  silk  covering  all. 
Nor  was  her  horse  unadorned,  an  embroidered  saddle- 
cloth swept  the  ground,  the  bridle  and"  stirrup  were 
inlaid  with  gems,  and  even  the  shoes  were  wrought  in 
gold. 

At  length,  high  over  the  wide  plains  which  encircle 
Toledo,  the  bulk  of  a  lofty  castle  rises  to  her  eyes;  the 
rock  on  which  it  stands  so  hard  and  defined  in  out- 
line, it  seemed  as  if  nature  had  planted  it  there  as 
a  pedestal   to   receive   the   burden,    and   to   guide   the 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  39 

majestic  current  of  the  Tagus  through  solemn  defiles 
round  the  walls. 

There,  as  now,  the  Alcazar  stands,  the  servile  city- 
grouping  at  its  base  in  long,  flat  lines,  granite  rocks 
breaking  out  between,  and  giant  buttresses  bordering 
the  deep  flood  —  a  sadly-tinted  scene,  terrible  and 
weird,  just  touched  with  burning  flecks  when  the  sun 
sets. 

In  a  deep  valley  beside  the  Tagus  Egilona  rested 
under  a  silken  pavilion  prepared  for  her,  to  await  the 
coming  of  the  king.  Gloomy  were  her  thoughts  on  the 
banks  of  that  rock-bound  river,  black  with  granite 
boulders  and  rash  and  hasty  in  its  course.  What  a 
country  was  this,  after  the  exotic  landscapes  of  Algiers, 
the  palmy  groves  and  plantains,  the  orange  and  lemon 
orchards,  the  ruddy  pomegranates  and  olive  grounds, 
and  the  deep  valleys  of  the  hills?  What  pale,  dismal 
tints!  What  stern,  sunless  skies!  Terror  struck  to 
Egilona's  heart  as  she  asked  herself  what  kind  of  man 
this  northern  king  would  be  who  dwelt  in  that  frown- 
ing castle?  Would  those  walls  enclose  her  in  a  life- 
long prison?  or  would  the  dark  flood  beside  her  be  her 
grave?  Poor  Egilona!  a  captive  and  a  slave!  How 
could  she  guess  the  briUiant  future  before  her,  when 
the  aspect  of  nature  itself  heightened  her  fears? 

Meanwhile,  descending  by  the  winding  path  which 
proudly  zig-zags  down  the  hill — a  glittering  cavalcade 
reaches  the  archway  of  the  Golden  Gate  (a  monument 
formed  in  all  ages  for  triumphant  conquerors  to  pass 
through)  to  defile  upon  the  bridge  upheld  by  many 
piers.  Gothic  chiefs,  magnificent  in  glittering  armour, 
lances,   heavy   embossed  casques  and  gold-inlaid  corse- 


40  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN. 

lets,  riding  deeply-flanked  horses,  champing  bits  of  gold 
— the  great  princes  of  the  northern  court,  the  magnificent 
successors  of  those  iron-hearted  warriors  who  had  well- 
nigh  conquered  the  world;  mules  with  embroidered 
saddle-cloths,  and  gay  litters  and  arabas  furnished 
with  striped  curtains  for  such  attendant  demoiselles  as 
could  not  ride;  gorgeous  chariots,  too,  horsed  with 
battle-steeds  and  surrounded  by  archers  and  spearmen, 
flags  and  banners  waving  in  the  sun,  pages  and  at- 
tendants bright  as  exotic  birds;  and  last  of  all,  more 
dazzling  than  the  rest,  Roderich  himself,  clad  in  crim- 
son robes,  active,  vigorous  and  graceful,  his  face  aglow 
with  an  excitement  which  heightened  the  wondrous  beauty 
of  his  features. 

For  such  a  reputation  of  comeliness  to  have  come 
down  to  us  from  the  eighth  century,  argues  Roderich  a 
royal  Apollo  indeed;  but  whether  he  favoured  the  raven, 
or  if  his  curling  locks  recalled  the  glow  of  the  dawn, 
can  only  be  conjectured. 

As  he  draws  rein  and  dismounts  before  the  silken 
draperies  of  the  pavilion,  within  which  the  peerless 
Egilona  rests,  his  soul  is  moved  with  tender  expecta- 
tion. He  enters;  their  eyes  meet,  and  he  is  struck 
dumb!  That  mischievous  boy,  Cupid,  has  pierced  him 
with  his  dart,  and  then  and  there  he  swears  a  silent 
oath  that  Egilona  shall  be  his  queen. 

"Come  to  me,"  he  says,  in  a  soft  voice,  as  he  bends 
on  her  his  glowing  eyes.  "Come  without  fear.  Let  no 
sorrow  cloud  that  royal  brow.  Beside  me,  your  path 
shall  ever  be  made  smooth,  and  a  shelter  found,  where 
you  shall  rest  alone.  As  in  the  court  of  your  father,  so 
shall  you  be  in  mine.     All  I  crave  is  leave  to  kiss  your 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  4 1 

feet,  most  incomparable  stranger.  This  favour  you  will 
not  refuse." 

At  which  Egilona,  blushing  to  the  painted  henna 
circles  which  increased  the  splendour  of  her  eyes  under 
his  ardent  gaze,  bows  her  dark  head. 

Then  taking  her  hand,  Roderich,  kissing  the  deli- 
cate finger-tips  tenderly,  forbade  her  to  kneel  before 
him  as  she  desired.  With  his  own  hands  he  mounted 
her  on  a  palfrey,  and  accompanies  her  up  the  ascent 
to  the  castle,  where  he  installs  her  in  the  richest  cham- 
bers facing  the  sun.  And,  ever  more  and  more 
enslaved,  the  handsome  young  Goth,  amorous  by 
temperament  and  habit,  became  dearer  and  dearer  to 
her,  and  fainter  and  fainter  grew  the  remembrance  of 
her  African  home,  and  that  Tunisian  bridegroom  she 
had  never  seen;  until,  at  last,  her  dainty  lips  opened 
with  a  ^'Fes/'  to  his  entreaties,  and  Egilona  consented 
to  become  a  Christian  and  his  queen. 

Wonderful  are  the  ways  of  love!  All  this  took 
place  in  a  brief  space.  Not  only  Egilona,  but  many  of 
her  Moorish  damsels,  wooed  by  Gothic  knights,  eloquent 
with  the  words  of  passion,  found  their  arguments  so 
convincing,  that  they  also  not  only  shared  in  her  con- 
version, but  followed  her  example  in  marriage. 

Happy  Egilona!  The  shops  in  the  Yacatin,  the 
Jews'  quarter,  and  the  bales  of  the  African  merchants 
travelling  from  city  to  city,  were  ransacked  for  her  use. 
The  most  precious  merchandise,  silks,  gems,  perfumes, 
and  sweetmeats — all  that  Europe  and  the  East  pos- 
sessed richest  and  rarest  to  please  a  lady's  eye,  were 
showered  upon  her,  when  Don  Roderich  led  her  by  the 
broad    marble   stairs   of  the   Alcazar   into   the   pillared 


42  OLD    COURT  LIFE   L\   SPAIN. 

patio,  followed  by  her  African  retinue,  down  the  steep 
streets  to  the  Cathedral — very  different  to  what  we  see 
it  now,  though  standing  on  the  same  spot,  and  in  all 
ages  a  fair  and  stately  edifice,  said  to  have  been  founded 
by  the  Virgin  herself  Children,  according  to  ancient 
custom,  running  before  to  throw  flowers  in  her  path; 
and  bowls  filled  with  uncut  jewels  and  gold  coins 
presented  to  her  by  noble  youths  in  silken  robes.  The 
wedding  chorus  sung  as  she  passed  by,  a  poet  reciting 
"How  the  god  of  love  had  wounded  the  heart  of  the 
king,"  the  Archbishop  Opas  himself  meeting  them  at  the 
great  Puerta,  and  blessing  them  as  they  knelt. 

Jousts,  tournaments  and  banquets  followed;  the 
great  chiefs  appearing  resplendent  in  burnished  armour, 
embossed  and  enamelled  in  the  ancient  style;  nothing 
too  costly  for  these  delicate  descendants  of  the  rudely 
armed  Alaric;  carpet  knights,  all  plumes  and  banners 
and  worked  scarfs,  glittering  in  and  out  of  silken  tents; 
and  revelry  and  dances  presided  over  by  the  King  and 
Queen. 

For  twenty  days  princes  and  knights,  assembled 
from  all  parts  of  Spain,  kept  holiday  at  Toledo.  Eveiy 
tongue  declared  the  dark-skinned  Egilona  peerless  among 
queens,  and  Don  Roderich  the  comeliest  of  the  Gothic 
race.  Egilona  was  adored  by  her  Christian  consort.  He 
turned  no  more  longing  eyes  upon  the  venal  fair  who 
hitherto  had  contended  for  his  favour,  and  the  vessel  of 
state  glided  over  a  crystal  sea  to  the  soft  winds  of 
prosperity  under  a  cloudless  sky. 

The  old  lays  and  ballads  make  Roderich,  in  the 
magnificence  of  his  youth,  a  rival  of  the  Cid  Campeador 
himself.     Even   his   mortal  enemies,    the  Moors,   glorify 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  43 

him  in  their  songs  sung  to  the  cither  under  the  orange 
groves  of  Grenada. 

But  already  the  "cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's 
hand"  is  rising  on  the  horizon,  by-and-by  to  obscure 
and  darken  the  sun  of  his  success. 

A  crown  acquired  by  violence  sits  uneasily  on  the 
usurper's  head.  Like  Witica,  Don  Roderich  was  tor- 
mented with  suspicions  of  conspiracies  and  treachery 
among  his  powerful  nobles.  So  little  did  the  fate  of 
his  ill-starred  predecessor  teach  him  wisdom,  that  he 
permitted  the  same  fears  to  haunt  him  of  all  who  were 
allied  to  him  by  blood.  Witica's  two  sons  were  banished 
from  Spain,  and,  to  avoid  the  chance  of  rebellion,  such 
defences  in  walls  and  castles  as  yet  remained  were  thrown 
down,  and  the  carefully  constructed  fortifications  of  the 
Romans  levelled  to  the  earth.  Nor  could  a  rude  and 
warlike  race  be  expected  to  maintain  their  early  valour 
in  the  midst  of  such  luxury  and  licentiousness  as  prevailed. 
For  two  hundred  years  the  Gothic  kings  had  held  Spain 
by  the  prowess  of  their  arms,  and  the  simple  habits  of 
their  forefathers  —  Ataulf,  Sigeric,  Theodore,  Marie, 
Amalaric,  and  his  successors  up  to  the  frugal-minded 
Wamba,  the  "Farmer  King." 

Now,  under  Witica  and  Roderich,  effeminacy  and 
sloth  led  on  to  cowardice.  The  Gothic  soldiers  who 
had  been  galvanised  into  a  temporary  show  of  valour 
by  the  recent  strife  between  Witica  and  Roderich,  soon 
sank  back  into  the  inactivity  of  a  wanton  court,  feasting, 
dancing,  and  wassailing  in  a  style  more  becoming  the 
satraps  of  an  Eastern  potentate  than  the  chiefs  of  a 
free  and  generous  people.  Who  could  have  recognised 
in  these  voluptuous  youths,  who  hung  about  the  person 


44  OLD    COURT   LIFE   IN  SPAIN. 

of  Don  Roderich,  the  descendants  of  those  stem  and 
frugal  Teutonic  heroes  of  the  north,  marching  down  Uke 
thunder-gods  to  conquer  the  nations? 

Pomp  there  was,  it  is  true,  and  splendour,  and 
civilisation,  and  an  elegance  of  manners  and  of  thought 
unknown  before;  but  the  heart  of  the  Gothic  nation  was 
cankered  at  the  core,  and  the  warlike  Moors,  ever  on 
the  look-out  to  snatch  from  their  grasp  the  fertile 
Peninsula  showing  out  so  fair  across  the  Straits,  noted 
it  with  joy. 


CHAPTER    11. 

DON  RODERICH. GATHERING   OF  THE   CHIEFS. 

TRIAL   OF  WITICA. 

How  strange  to  think  of  Cordoba  before  the  Moors, 
who  so  imbued  it  with  the  spirit  of  Moslem  life!  Those 
famous  Caliphs  of  the  rival  houses  of  Mirvan  and 
Ummaija,  and  the  great  Abdurraman,  whose  wealth  and 
luxury  reads  like  a  dream;  Eastern  luxury  in  banquets 
under  painted  domes;  odalisques  and  white -robed 
eunuchs  gliding  beneath  fretted  arches,  vaults  of 
alabaster  and  porphyry;  harems  with  walls  shedding 
showers  of  jasmine  and  rose-leaves,  the  soft  breathings 
of  guzla  and  cither,  dark  heads  crowned  with  orient 
pearls,  and  tissue-robed  Sultanas  rechning  on  golden 
thrones. 

"Kartuba  the  important,"  the  gem  of  the  Cartha- 
ginians— ancient  when  the  Gentiles  reigned  in  the  time 
of  Moses — possessed  in  turn  by  Greeks  and  Romans, 
the    birth-place    of  Seneca,    Lucan,    Averroes    and    El 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  45 

Gran  Capitan  Gonsalvo  Aguilar  de  Cordoba;  for  ages 
the  capital  of  Southern  Spain, — is  to  be  considered  ex- 
clusively, before  the  advent  of  the  Moors,  as  a  Roman 
settlement,  the  grandly  regular  aspect  of  these  masters 
of  the  world  impressed  upon  its  buildings.  Siding  with 
Pompey  in  the  time  of  the  Republic,  it  was  destroyed 
by  the  vengeance  of  Caesar.  Rebuilt  by  Marcellus  and 
re-peopled  by  penniless  patricians  from  Rome,  it  was 
for  a  time  called  "Patricia;"  under  all  names  a  sober 
and  dignified  capital  gathered  round  its  ancient  castle 
on  the  banks  of  the  Guadalquivir. 

At  all  times  Cordoba  was  beautiful;  the  verdant 
slopes  of  the  Sierra  Morena,  rising  precipitously  from 
the  very  gates,  look  down  serenely  on  the  strife  of  rival 
peoples;  lovely  retreats,  dotted  with  white  quint  as,  farms, 
mills,  vineyards  and  olive-grounds;  the  rugged  summits 
rising  westwards  to  the  limits  of  Lusitania;  the  lazy 
Guadalquivir  flowing  at  their  base,  through  grassy  plains 
dark  with  orange  and  myrtle. 

Now  what  a  desolation!  A  solitary  shepherd  pipes 
to  his  flock,  as  he  passes  at  the  "Ave  Maria/'  on  the 
lonely  road;  a  file  of  mules,  carrying  bricks  or  corn 
succeed  him;  a  ragged  goatherd  watches  his  kids  graz- 
ing beside  the  river,  and  droves  of  swine  burrow  in  the 
mould  once  trodden  by  the  steps  of  heroes !  Two  boldly 
crenelated  towers  and  a  portion  of  the  outer  walls,  ris- 
ing from  an  ancient  garden  of  exceeding  sweetness,  are 
all  that  remains  of  the  palace  and  fortress  of  the  Gothic 
kings.  Thickets  of  roses  and  lilacs  engulf  you  as  you 
enter,  broad  palm  leaves  shroud  decay,  and  quivering 
cane-brakes  whisper  softly  of  the  past.  A  little  to  the 
left  rises  a  lower  tower,  grey  against  the  sky,  another 


46  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

and  another;  the  stones  scarcely  held  together  by 
entwining  ropes  of  ivy — all  that  remains  of  the  royal 
castle. 

In  the  prison  beneath,  on  a  level  with  the  Guadal- 
quivir, the  noble  Theodofredo,  father  of  Roderich, 
languished,  deprived  of  sight  by  red-hot  irons  held 
before  the  eyes,  a  favourite  mode  of  torture,  borrowed, 
like  all  that  is  degraded,  from  the  Byzantines.  Now 
Witica,  who  had  commanded  this  savage  act,  has  taken 
his  place  in  the  same  prison,  and  is  to  be  judged  by 
Theodofredo's  son.  Wiser  had  it  been,  and  more 
merciful,  had  Roderich  foregone  this  vengeance.  But 
with  power  had  come  the  savage  instincts  of  his  race. 
The  indulgence  of  his  life  has  already  begun  to  tell  on 
his  once  generous  nature.  Little  by  little,  he  has  fallen 
from  the  high  position  of  regenerator  of  Spain,  and,  led 
on  by  evil  counsel  and  a  natural  weakness  inherent  in 
his  nature,  has  adopted  the  same  false  and  cruel  prin- 
ciples of  government  which  he  was  called  to  the  throne 
to  reform. 

Within  a  broad  vaulted  hall,  the  high  roof  supported 
by  carved  rafters,  the  walls  hung  with  tapestry  woven 
with  silver  thread  —  in  which  the  stories  of  Gothic 
victories  are  rudely  depicted — Roderich  sits  on  a  low 
silver  throne.  It  is  shaped  like  a  shield,  in  remembrance 
of  the  early  custom  of  the  nomad  chiefs,  his  ancestors, 
who,  when  invested  with  military  command,  were  three 
times,  standing  upon  a  shield,  carried  round  the  camp, 
on  the  shoulders  of  stalwart  Goths.  A  rich  mantle  of 
purple  brocade  covers  a  lightly-wrought  cuirass  inlaid 
with  gold.    The  Gothic  crown,  which  has,  in  the  altered 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  47 

manners  of  the  time,  come  to  be  not  of  iron  but  of 
gold,  set  with  resplendent  jewels,  rests  upon  his  head, 
almost  concealed  by  luxuriant  masses  of  hair,  falling  on 
neck  and  shoulders,  in  beard  and  lovelocks.  His  buskins 
are  red,  like  the  Eastern  emperors',  and  his  feet,  shod 
with  pearled  sandals,  rest  on  an  inlaid  footstool.  The 
sceptre  lies  beside  him  with  his  sword,  and  over  his 
head  is  a  raised  canopy  of  cloth  of  gold,  decorated  with 
inscriptions  in  Runic  characters  and  quaint  devices,  come 
down  from  early  times. 

Around  are  the  chiefs  and  nobles  of  the  nation, 
gathered  from  all  quarters  of  Spain — to  judge  him  who 
lately  was  their  king.  All  are  men  of  war,  habited  in 
the  superb  but  cumbrous  armour  of  the  time,  before 
the  delicate  handling  of  the  Moor  turned  metal  into 
thin  plates  of  steel,  made  swords  as  fine  and  piercing 
as  needles,  and  armoury  a  science. 

Nearest  to  Roderich  stands  Ataulfo,  next  in  succes- 
sion to  the  throne,  a  generous-hearted  youth,  full  of  the 
old  virtues  of  his  nation.  With  much  of  the  ruddy 
countenance  of  the  king,  he  shows  his  northern  origin 
in  the  chestnut  locks  which  escape  from  his  burnished 
cap,  and  a  certain  blond  fairness  in  spite  of  exposure 
to  a  southern  sun. 

Teodomir,  a  veteran  general,  comes  next;  as  too 
rigid  a  disciplinarian  for  the  degenerate  times,  he  has 
somewhat  fallen  into  neglect  among  the  younger  chiefs 
who  have  risen  to  power  with  the  accession  of  the  king. 
Teodomir  is  well  past  the  prime  of  life,  but  retains  the 
keen  eye  and  stalwart  limbs  of  youth,  as  at  the  head  of 
an  army  he  will  show  before  many  years  are  past.  The 
historic  warrior,  Pelistes,  is  here  too,  already  sunk  into 


48  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

the  vale  of  years,  but,  like  Teodomir,  strong  and  ready 
of  hand  and  purpose,  his  grizzled  hair  shading  a  noble 
countenance.  These  two  trusty  chiefs,  who  present 
themselves  in  the  antiquated  armour  of  the  Goths,  had 
been  close  friends  of  Roderich's  father,  and  were 
specially  active  in  raising  the  hasty  levies  for  the  battle 
which  placed  his  son  on  the  throne;  spite  of  which 
services,  as  time  goes  by,  they  find  themselves  somewhat 
disregarded  by  the  young  king,  who  listens  to  more 
flattering  counsels  and  secretly  laughs  at  the  rustic  vir- 
tues applauded  in  the  days  of  Recaredo  and  Wamba. 

The  royal  lad  Pelayo  is  also  bidden,  the  son  of 
that  Favila,  Dux  of  Cantabria,  put  to  death  by  Witica, 
when  he  purposed  to  slaughter  all  of  his  blood.  Pelayo 
stands  somewhat  back  as  becomes  his  youth,  for  who 
can  guess  that  this  beardless  boy,  with  a  smiling,  artless 
face,  and  full  blue  northern  eyes  will,  by  his  fortitude, 
become  the  founder  of  a  new  race  of  Gothic  kings,  and 
by  his  endurance  and  valour  raise  up  a  native  dynasty 
in  Spain? 

A  crowd  of  young  courtiers,  most  careful  of  the 
adornment  of  their  persons,  fill  up  the  space  behind, 
apparelled  in  long  embroidered  mantles  of  many  brilliant 
shades,  held  in  by  jewelled  cinctures  and  buckles, 
elaborately  worked  caps  upon  their  heads  (the  first  idea 
of  the  later  toque  of  the  Rejiaissance) — fashions  which 
have  taken  the  place  of  the  short  tunic,  leather  girdle 
and  heavy  head-piece  of  former  times. 

Beside  these  stands  one  on  whom  all  eyes  are 
turned.  Stern  and  composed  of  aspect,  as  if  conscious 
of  the  possession  of  such  power  that  he  is  cautious  of 
displaying  it.     His   name  is  Julian,   and   it  is   he  who 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  49 

chiefly  seconded  the  rising  in  favour  of  Roderich.  Yet 
this  man,  Espatorios  of  Spain,  Lord  of  Consuega  and 
Algesiras,  commander  of  the  Goths  on  the  African  sea- 
board, and  governor  of  Ceuta,  half  royal  himself — is  a 
dangerous  subject,  and  a  doubtful  friend.  Why  he  had 
supported  Roderich  is  the  enigma  of  the  day;  he  had 
but  to  stretch  out  his  hand  to  seize  the  crown  himself, 
and  with  a  much  more  legitimate  claim.  The  ambition 
of  his  wife  Frandina  is  well  known,  and  that  she  chafes 
at  her  inferior  position,  and  shuns  the  Court  of  Toledo 
and  the  royal  house  since  Egilona  is  the  queen;  yet, 
strange  to  say,  Julian,  as  yet,  has  never  swerved  in  his 
allegiance  to  Roderich.  If  any  dark  purpose  of  treason 
is  brooding  in  his  soul,  as  yet  it  appears  not.  To  this 
time  he  is  faithful,  and  is  now  present  at  Cordoba  to 
judge  his  own  near  kinsman  Witica  for  divers  misdeeds, 
but  principally  for  his  share  in  the  death  of  Roderich's 
father  Theodofredo. 

What  that  judgment  will  be  is  very  plain  to  see. 
Rather  to  behold  the  wretched  tyrant  die  than  to  judge 
him  are  they  all  assembled  there,  for  the  settled  purpose 
in  the  mind  of  Roderich  is  revenge. 

If  Julian  is  an  enigma,  much  more  so  is  his  smooth- 
faced brother-in-law,  Opas,  Archbishop  of  Seville,  brother 
of  the  fallen  king,  and  his  aider  and  abetter  in  all  his 
vice  and  cruelty.  A  very  Judas  in  cunning  is  Opas, 
who,  with  the  fall  of  the  supremacy  of  the  Church  has, 
for  the  sake  of  power,  accommodated  himself  to  the 
new  ideas,  and  looks  out  now  upon  the  course  of 
events  with  a  cold  eye.  What  are  his  present  motives? 
None  can  guess.  Yet  in  the  fiendish  treachery  and 
bitter  hatred  he  came  later  to  display  towards  Roderich 

Old  Court  Life  in  Spain.  I,  4 


50  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

some  explanation  may  be  found  in  the  cruel  punish- 
ment he  inflicted  on  his  unfortunate  brother.  But  the 
present  unnatural  compliance  of  Opas,  even  in  these 
rough  days,  is  looked  on  with  disgust.  There  he 
stands,  however,  scornfully  indifferent  to  what  men 
think,  clothed  in  a  rich  cope  and  jewel-adorned  dal- 
matica,  a  double  tiara  *on  his  head,  resplendent  with 
gems,  for  as  he  is  in  the  presence  of  one  king,  to  judge 
another  who  has  worn  the  crown,  Opas  has  arrayed 
himself  in  the  splendid  paraphernalia  of  his  double 
office  of  Archbishop  of  Seville  and  of  Toledo.  Attended 
by  two  deacons  he  presents  the  very  picture  of  the 
Prelate  of  the  day,  ready  to  lead  in  war,  or  govern  in 
peace;  a  cross  upon  his  neck,  his  waist  girded  with  a 
sword,  and  his  feet  cased  in  steel. 

More  than  anyone  else  present,  however,  the  royal 
lad  Pelayo,  for  whom  so  romantic  a  future  is  in  store, 
is  personally  interested  in  the  punishment  of  Witica,  the 
murderer  of  his  father;  yet  the  composure  of  his  face 
and  the  carelessness  of  his  attitude,  as  he  leans  against 
one  of  the  columns  that  uphold  the  raftered  roof,  is  as 
if  he  were  but  one  among  the  many.  Outwardly  he 
betrays  no  consciousness  of  his  great  wrong.  Death 
and  torture  are  familiar  to  the  Gothic  mind,  and,  like 
the  rest,  he  appears  prepared  to  abide  by  the  judgment 
of  the  king. 

The  heavy  hangings  shrouding  the  southern  entrance 
to  the  hall  are  drawn  aside,  and,  with  a  rush  of  sun- 
shine and  scent  of  aromatic  herbs  and  odorous  flowers, 
Witica  appears,  led  in  by  slaves,  heavy  chains  clanking 
at  his  feet,  and  manacles  binding  his  arms.  Common 
woollen  garments  of  a  dark  colour  cling  to  his  emaciated 


OLD    COURT  LIFE   IN   SPAIN.  5 1 

frame,  and  his  long,  unkempt  hair  streams  down  to  his 
waist.  So  greatly  is  he  changed  that  it  is  almost  im- 
possible to  recognise  the  lineaments  of  the  jubilant  and 
gross-featured  voluptuary  in  this  thin,  care-ravaged  face. 
As  he  slowly  approaches  the  throne  upon  which 
Roderich  is  seated,  he  stops  abruptly.  The  rude  guards 
on  either  side  push  him  on,  and  weighted  by  the  grasp 
of  the  fetters  he  falls  helplessly  forward  on  his  knees. 
Thus  he  remains  motionless.  No  friendly  hand  is  out- 
stretched to  help  him — the  miserable  king.  Not  a  single 
eye  in  that  assembly  softens  with  a  pitying  glance. 

A  wan,  craven  look  comes  over  his  face  as  he  raises 
his  eyes  beseechingly  to  the  superb  young  monarch  who 
has  taken  liis  place — so  miserable  an  object,  that  what- 
ever were  his  crimes  it  seems  impossible  he  can  inspire 
now  anything  but  pity.  But  Don  Roderich  thinks  other- 
wise; he  contemplates  the  wretched  figure  before  him 
with  a  stern  glance.  Then,  turning  to  the  assembled 
chiefs  and  addressing  himself  more  specially  to  Julian, 
standing  as  sword-bearer  at  the  right  of  the  throne,  he 
speaks  in  a  hard,  resonant  voice: 

"In  this  man  you  behold  the  butcher  of  my  father. 
To  amuse  his  caprice,  he  put  out  his  eyes  and  im- 
prisoned him  in  the  dungeon  of  this  castle  until,  worn 
out  by  suffering,  he  died.  My  father,"  he  repeated,  in 
a  ringing  voice,  which  sounds  hollow  in  the  vast  bare 
hall,  "the  noble  Theodofredo,  whose  only  crime  was 
being  born  near  the  throne." 

As  he  spoke  there  was  so  cruel  an  echo  in  his 
voice,  the  miserable  Witica  shivers  and  cowers  still 
lower  on  the  floor.  Never  possessed  of  much  intel- 
ligence it  would  seem  as  if  the  long  imprisonment  and 

4* 


52  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

certainty  of  death  has  deadened  within  him  the  little 
sense  he  has.  Dragged  from  the  darkness  of  a  dungeon 
into  the  full  light  of  day,  before  the  varied  pageant  of 
a  court  once  his  own,  his  brain  has  become  confused. 
A  dreadful  horror  is  all  he  feels. 

"What  punishment,"  continues  Don  Roderich,  "think 
you,  noble  Goths,  most  revered  archbishop,  and  brother 
chiefs,  should  be  inflicted  on  him  for  this  death,  and 
all  the  evil  he  has  wrought  in  Spain?" 

"My  lord,"  replies  Julian,  bowing  low,  apparently 
unmoved  by  the  miserable  object  grovelling  before  him, 
"that  is  a  personal  matter,  which  you  alone  can  de- 
cide. The  wrongs  of  a  father  are  the  wrongs  of  his 
child." 

"That  is  my  mind  also,"  briefly  spoke  the  veteran 
Teodomir.  "And  mine — and  mine,"  ran  round  the 
warlike  circle,  to  whom  the  soft  attribute  of  mercy  was 
unknown — "blood  calls  for  blood.  Such  is  the  law  of 
our  ancestors." 

Loud,  too,  in  assent  was  heard  the  voice  of  Pelistes, 
moved  to  something  like  feeling,  as  the  image  of  his 
friend,  the  noble  Theodofredo,  rises  to  his  mind,  con- 
demned to  a  slow  death  within  the  very  castle  in  which 
they  stand.  For  the  shifting  of  the  Gothic  Court  to 
Cordoba,  for  the  trial  of  Witica  on  the  very  spot  where 
-Theodofredo  suffered,  was  indeed  a  master-stroke  on 
the  part  of  Roderich  to  heighten  to  the  utmost  pitch  of 
intensity  not  only  the  acuteness  of  his  own  vengeance, 
but  the  sanguinary  passions  of  the  Goths. 

While  each  noble  gives  assent,  the  young  Pelayo 
grew  very  pale.  Was  not  Favila,  his  father,  lord  of  the 
wide  district  of  Cantab ria,  on  the  iron-bound  coast,  be- 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  53 

sides  the  range  of  the  Asturian  mountains,  a  northern 
king  in  all  but  the  name?  Was  not  Favila  also  cruelly 
put  to  death.  And  had  not  Witica  sought  to  lay  his 
murderous  hands  on  him  also?  Yet  no  man  heeded. 
The  death  of  Favila  had  passed  unnoticed,  and  Roderich, 
at  best  but  a  usurper,  and  Roderich's  wrongs  are  alone 
in  every  mouth!  Too  young  to  remonstrate  with  these 
elder  chiefs,  the  heart  of  Pelayo  chafes  in  silent  indigna- 
tion, and  he  swears  to  himself  that  if  he  lives,  the  day 
shall  come  when  ancient  Iberia  shall  ring  with  the  for- 
gotten name  of  his  sire! 

"And  you,  most  venerable  archbishop,"  continues 
Roderich,  turning  to  address  himself  to  Opas,  who,  as 
if  some  claim  of  kindred  had  sounded  at  his  heart,  had 
further  withdrawn  himself  when  Witica  appeared,  and 
stood  so  placed  as  to  conceal  the  view  of  the  pathetic 
spectacle  before  him — "you  who,  by  your  presence  here 
this  day,  give  us  so  signal  a  proof  of  your  loyalty,  what 
seems  to  you  just  in  this  matter,  so  closely  touching 
yourself?  We  would  willingly  carry  the  Church  with  us. 
Speak  your  mind  freely,  nor  let  our  royal  presence  in 
aught  prejudice  the  prisoner." 

"My  lord,"  answers  Opas,  in  a  voice  which,  spite 
of  his  efforts  to  steady  it,  still  sounded  scarcely  in  its 
natural  tone,  "my  vote  lies  with  my  kinsman,  Julian.  In 
a  matter  so  nearly  concerning  myself  as  a  brother's  life 
and  death,  it  fitteth  best  for  me  to  be  silent." 

Something  in  the  familiar  tones  of  his  voice,  some 
subtle  affinity  of  blood  betwixt  brother  and  brother, 
struck  the  dull  sense  of  Witica.  As  Opas  spoke  he 
raised  his  head,  and,  as  he  seemed  to  listen,  a  sickly 
smile  played  for  a  moment  about  his  sunken  lips,  and 


54  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

a  more  human  expression  passed  into  his  eyes.  Listen- 
ing, listening  eagerly,  as  if  expecting  some  help,  a  wist- 
ful gleam  of  hope  striking  across  the  depths  of  blank 
despair,  his  glance  swept  upwards  with  a  pleading  im- 
potency  terrible  to  behold,  the  vibration  as  it  were  of 
some  subtle  instrument  set  mysteriously  in  motion. 
Watching  for  what  was  to  come  with  open  mouth  and 
anxious  eyes,  thus  he  remained  sometime,  then  gra- 
dually the  tension  ceased,  the  heavy  eye  clouded,  the 
jaw  dropped,  and  the  head,  with  its  shaggy,  unkempt 
locks,  freely  mixed  with  grey,  once  more  sank  hope- 
lessly on  his  breast.  All  this  occupied  but  the  space  of 
a  few  minutes. 

Don  Roderich  spoke  once  more.  "Witica,"  says 
he,  lowering  his  eyes  to  the  level  of  the  prostrate  king, 
"you  have  heard  the  judgment  of  your  kinsmen  and 
those  who  were  your  former  subjects.  What  have  you 
to  answer?" 

An  inarticulate  sound  breaks  the  silence.  Witica 
makes  a  feeble  effort  to  raise  himself  in  the  arms  of  the 
slaves,  who  had  never  withdrawn  their  hold,  opens  his 
mouth  to  answer,  and  then  falls  back  speechless. 

The  Goths  were  ever  a  people  cruel  and  savage  in 
their  laws,  but  so  terrible  a  spectacle  as  that  one,  lately 
monarch  in  the  land,  should  have  fallen  into  such  a 
strait  might  have  touched  even  the  heart  of  an  enemy, 
how  much  more  kinsmen  so  nearly  allied  to  him?  But 
it  was  not  so,  neither  did  any  generous  impulse  move 
the  king  from  his  cruel  purpose.  With  the  kindling 
eye  of  vengeance  Roderich  contemplates  what  was  left 
of  that  Witica  whose  kingdom  he  had  seized,  and  pro- 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN.  55 

ceeds  to  give  sentence  in  clear,  ringing  tones,  audible 
in  every  corner  of  the  hall. 

"Let  the  evil  Witica  has  wrought  on  others  be 
visited  on  himself.  The  eyes  of  my  father  Theodo- 
fredo  were  put  out  by  his  order,  even  so  be  it  done 
with  him.  In  the  same  dungeon  here  at  Cordoba, 
where  my  father  died,  shall  his  life  end.  Away  with 
the  prisoner." 

The  sounds  of  approval  which  follow  these  words, 
especially  from  the  group  of  young  courtiers,  serve  in 
some  sort  to  drown  the  piercing  shrieks  which  break 
from  Witica  when  his  dulled  senses  grasp  the  full  mean- 
ing of  the  sentence.  Quick  as  thought  he  is  borne  away, 
and  the  spot  where  he  had  laid  is  rapidly  covered  by 
the  feet  of  the  crowd  of  chiefs  and  princes  who  gather 
in  groups  in  front  of  the  throne. 

With  a  careless  laugh  Roderich  descends  the  marble 
steps  on  which  the  throne  was  placed,  and  placing  his 
crown  in  the  hands  of  a  daintily  appareled  page,  moves 
freely  about  among  his  nobles.  The  friends  of  his 
father,  Pelistes  and  Teofredo,  coming  from  Murcia,  are 
specially  greeted.  To  the  Archbishop  Op  as  he  again 
addresses  himself  with  the  studied  courtesy  he  had 
learned  in  civilised  Italy.  But  again  Pelayo  is  passed 
over  in  silence,  an  affront  which  calls  up  a  flush  of 
anger  on  his  face,  as  he  silently  turns  and  leaves  the 
hall.  At  last,  singling  out  Julian,  Roderich  moves 
aside  under  the  range  of  the  low  pillars  which  divided 
the  hall. 

"This  judgment,"  says  he,  speaking  with  caution, 
"relieves  my  mind  of  much  care.  Witica  has  been  con- 
demned by  those  of  his  own  blood.     Brother,  brother- 


5 6  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPALV. 

in-law  and  kinsmen  have  joined  together  to  make 
secure  my  position  on  the  throne.  The  dam  indeed  is 
scotched,  but  what  of  the  lambkins?  Witica  will  be 
executed  forthwith,  but  his  sons  remain.  Where  are 
they?  While  they  live  the  kingdom  will  never  be  safe 
from  traitors." 

"Have  no  fear,  my  lord,"  answers  Julian,  who, 
through  all  this  painful  scene  seemed  to  be  lost  in  the 
contemplation  of  the  expression  of  the  king,  as  a 
student  pores  over  the  page  of  a  precious  manuscript 
the  sense  of  which  may  escape  him  by  its  obscurity. 
What  manner  of  man  is  this  they  had  chosen,  he  was 
asking  himself?  Was  Roderich  as  ferocious  as  he 
seemed?  Or  was  his  conduct  but  the  effort  of  a  vacil- 
lating mind  to  play  the  tyrant  to  excess,  conscious  of 
an  inherent  weakness?  And  as  he  watched  him,  a 
feeling  of  deadly  hatred  came  over  him  for  the  com- 
mission of  the  very  act  of  cruelty  he  had  just  sanc- 
tioned. But  his  answer  to  Roderich's  question  was  as 
unmoved  as  though  no  hostile  sentiments  were  warring 
within  him. 

"The  youths  are  already  fled  to  Africa,  my  lord, 
where  the  Spanish  Governor  of  Tangiers  harbours  them 
out  of  gratitude  to  their  father.  Let  them  rest,  they 
will  not  trouble  you." 

"You  say  well,  count,"  answers  Roderich  in  a  light 
tone;  "vengeance  for  my  father  was  a  duty.  For  awhile 
we  Will  grant  them  Hfe,  but  later  they  must  pay  the 
forfeit  of  Witica's  crimes.  But  now  to  other  matters. 
How  fares  the  Lady  Frandina,  your  virtuous  consort, 
and  the  young  Florinda,  whom  report  extols  as  beauti- 
ful beyond  measure?" 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAII^.  57 

The  manners  of  the  king  were  frank  and  soldierly, 
and  history  records  that  he  possessed  to  a  great  degree 
that  winning  demeanour  which  charms  in  the  high  ones 
of  the  earth.  To  Julian,  whose  powerful  aid  had  mainly 
helped  him  to  the  possession  of  the  crown,  he  had 
hitherto  shown  a  deference  that  flattered  while  it  con- 
trolled. To  Don  Roderich's  question  Julian  answered 
with  a  smile:  "It  is  well  with  my  consort,  who  is  at  our 
Castle  of  Algesiras;  she  bade  me  greet  your  grace.  As 
to  my  daughter,  it  was  of  her  I  was  about  to  speak. 
Florinda  is  with  me  in  Cordoba.  I  have  brought  her 
as  a  fair  present  and  hostage  to  your  bride.  Queen 
Egilona,  to  attend  on  her,  along  with  the  other  noble 
damsels  of  the  court,  and  to  learn  those  lessons  of  virtue 
and  excellence  in  which  she  is  paramount.  Will  you, 
my  lord,  be  my  surety  with  the  queen?" 

"That  will  I,  gladly,"  answers  Don  Roderich,  his 
countenance  lighting  up  with  a  gracious  smile.  "The 
confidence  which  you  repose  in  me  is  of  all  else  the 
crown  and  proof  of  your  loyalty.  As  such  I  accept  it. 
To  me  Florinda  shall  be  as  a  daughter.  I  will  watch 
over  her  as  yourself,  and  see  that  she  is  trained  in  the 
same  rigid  principles  of  piety  which  honour  her  mother's 
name." 

Julian,  his  pale,  olive-skinned  face  flushed  with  the 
gratification  these  words  afford,  bows  low.  "Florinda," 
he  replies,  "is  but  a  timid  girl  brought  up  by  her 
mother's  side,  as  yet  unacquainted  with  the  state  which 
fittingly  surrounds  Queen  Egilona.  You  will  pardon 
her  inexperience;  she  is  quick  and  sensitive  of  nature, 
and  keen  to  appreciate  kindness.  It  is  by  her  wish 
that  she  will  attend  the  queen;  I  have  but  followed  her 


58  OLD    COURT   LIFE   IN   SPAIN. 

own  desire.  Her  mother  indeed  consented,  but  unwill- 
ingly, to  part  with  her." 

"This  is  welcome  news.  It  is  as  a  shaft  which  tells 
both  ways,  in  the  sentiment  of  attachment  in  which  she 
has  been  reared,  and  of  the  mind  of  the  fair  maid  her- 
self. No  parents  shall  be  tenderer  or  more  careful 
than  we  to  her.  Would  that  I  had  a  son  to  match  with 
her  in  marriage." 

"And  now,"  says  Julian,  making  a  low  obeisance, 
"I  will  crave  to  be  permitted  to  withdraw;  my  presence 
is  demanded  in  my  government.  The  Moors  have  re- 
ceived considerable  reinforcements,  and  advance  upon 
Ceuta  from  the  neighbouring  hills.  By  way  of  Damascus 
they  come,  despatched  by  Almanzor  from  Bagdad,  called 
by  those  unbelievers  'The  sword  of  God.'  Our  Gothic 
province  on  the  margin  of  the  Straits  needs  vigoro'us 
and  constant  watching." 

"And  it  is  for  that  reason,"  is  Roderich's  reply, 
"that  I  have  placed  the  government  in  your  hands, 
valiant  Espatorios,  first  and  most  trusted  of  all  my 
Gothic  chiefs." 

"I  will  do  my  duty,  my  lord,"  is  the  rejoinder. 
"You  need,  I  trust,  no  assurance  of  this;  but,  spite  of 
precautions,  I  fear  greatly  that  a  battle  or  a  siege  is 
imminent.  The  Moslems  are  gathered  in  such  numbers, 
savage  tribes  of  Arabs  and  Berbers,  under  the  Moorish 
general,  Mousa  ben  Nozier  of  Damascus,  and  his  son 
Abd-el-asis,  that  it  will  need  all  our  resources  to  baffle. 
Mousa  swears  that  he  will  drive  the  Cross  from  the  con- 
fines of  Africa,  and  raise  the  crescent  on  every  Christian 
fortress  we  hold  in  Tingitana." 

"This  is  a  confirmation  of  evil  news,"  replies  Don 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  59 

Roderich,  whose  beaming  countenance  had  darkened  as 
Julian  gave  these  details.  "I  am  well  advised  of  the 
concentration  of  the  Arabs  in  the  north  of  Africa.  I 
but  awaited  your  coming  to  confirm  it.  But  had  you 
not  been  present  with  the  archbishop  it  would  have 
been  argued  in  the  nation  that  as  his  relative  you  dis- 
approved my  sentence.  Now  we  are  hand  in  hand. 
Command  all  the  resources  of  the  mainland  to  drive 
the  invaders  back.  Light  sloops  can  be  run  from 
Algeciras  to  Ceuta  with  soldiers  and  arms." 

"My  lord,  I  have  enough;  should  a  siege  be 
threatened  every  mouth  has  to  be  fed.  But  it  is  to 
me,  the  leader,  that  the  Christians  look.  It  is  I  who 
am  needed  on  the  coast  of  Barbary.  I  have  per- 
sonally too,  great  credit  with  the  Moors;  they  are  noble 
enemies." 

"I  doubt  it  not,"  is  Roderich's  answer.  "Wherever 
my  trusty  Espatorios  draws  the  sword,  victory  follows." 

"My  lord,  it  was  but  to  excuse  my  hasty  parting, 
not  to  ask  for  more  supplies,  that  I  spoke.  To  know 
that  my  daughter  is  well  disposed  of  in  a  safe  asylum 
is  a  balm  to  me  greater  than  any  boon  you  could 
bestow.  My  wife,  Frandina,  fights  by  my  side.  I  have 
no  fear  for  her,  and  our  son  is  consigned  to  the  care 
of  the  Archbishop  Op  as.  Now,  thanks  to  you,  my  lord, 
I  am  free-handed  to  face  the  Moors.  I  have  but  to 
settle  more  matters  connected  with  Florinda,  and  to 
depart.  The  queen  is  at  Toledo,  I  must  accompany 
her  thither." 

"By  no  means,"  cries  Don  Roderich,  "unless  such 
is  your  wish.     She  shall  go  with  me,  accompanied  by 


6o  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN. 

suitable  attendants.    I  myself  will  present  her  to  Egilona 
as  our  child." 

Meanwhile,  the  assemblage  had  gradually  diminished. 
Each  chief  was  in  haste  to  depart,  for  the  country  was 
full  of  enemies,  more  especially  in  the  south  and  east, 
where  the  vessels  of  the  Moors  continually  landed 
Berbers  and  Arabs  to  plunder  and  carry  off  the  in- 
habitants as  slaves.  That  serious  invasion  was  near  at 
hand  all  understood,  except  perhaps  Roderich  and  the 
idle  young  Goths  who  formed  his  court.  As  yet,  it  is 
true,  Don  Julian  held  the  enemy  at  bay  in  Africa,  but, 
his  presence  or  his  support  withdrawn,  the  Moors  would 
pour  like  a  torrent  on  the  land,  and,  save  for  a  few  of 
the  old  leaders  who  had  survived  the  disastrous  reign 
of  Witica,  and  the  enervating  atmosphere  spreading 
everywhere  from  the  court  into  all  ranks,  ivho  was  there 
to  oppose  them? 


CHAPTER    m. 

DON  RODERICK'S   PERFIDY. 

The  Court  life  shifts  from  the  green  Sierras  of 
Cordoba  to  the  old  city  of  Toledo.  Again  we  are  in 
the  corn- bearing  plains,  the  outlines  of  the  domes, 
pinnacles  and  turrets  of  the  Alcazar  before  us  gay  and 
jocund  with  the  security  of  two  hundred  years  of  Gothic 
rule.  What  footsteps  have  echoed  through  those  courts! 
What  regal  presences  haunt  them!  Iberian,  Roman,  and 
Gothic;  Recaredo,  Wamba,  Witica,  and  comely  Roderich; 
to  be  followed  by  Moors,  and  Castilian  kings;  El  Ca- 
ballero,  El  Emplazado,  EI  Valente,  El  Impotente;  a  red- 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  6l 

haired  bastard  of  Trastamare  succeeding  his  brother 
Don  Pedro  El  Cruel,  a  swaggering  Alfonso,  Velasque's, 
Philip,  the  staid  dowager-Queen  Berenguela,  fair  Isabel 
the  Catholic,  the  widow  of  Philip  the  Fourth,  the  mother 
of  Charles  El  Soco,  Johana  El  Loca,  not  to  forget  the 
Cid,  first  Christian  alcaide  and  governor;  a  palace  in 
old  times  marking  the  utmost  limits  of  the  known  world, 
beyond  which  the  east  looked  into  the  hyperborean 
darkness  of  the  west;  the  geographical  centre  of  all 
Spain — supremely  regal,  its  foundations  laid  in  legend, 
and  its  ramparts  raised  in  the  glamour  of  Oriental  song; 
a  refuge  from  Moorish  invasion  for  the  defenceless  Goth, 
and  the  superb  residence  of  later  kings.  In  a  hollow 
beneath  rise  the  towers  of  the  cathedral,  and  the  out- 
line of  many  ancient  synagogues,  for  the  Jews  were 
always  powerful  in  Toledo — El  Transit©  and  El  Blanco 
are  the  principal,  and  hospitals  for  the  chosen  race.  If 
Toledo  was  the  Gothic  capital,  it  was  also  long  before 
known  under  the  name  of  "  Toledoth,"  where  the  Jews 
came  in  great  numbers  after  the  sack  of  Jerusalem  by 
Nebuchadnezzar.  "The  Jews  fled  to  Tarshish,"  says 
the  Bible,  and  Tarshish  is  the  scriptural  name  for 
southern  Spain. 

Other  churches  and  oratories  there  were,  for  the 
Goths  were  a  pious  people,  also  the  house  of  Wamba 
over  the  Tagus,  and  the  mystic  tower  of  Hercules,  rising 
on  a  rock,  the  entrance  guarded  by  an  inscription  setting 
forth  "that  whenever  a  king  passes  the  threshold,  the 
empire  of  Spain  shall  fall;"  a  warning  much  respected 
by  the  Gothic  kings — Wamba,  Ervig,  Eric  and  Witica, 
who  each  in  turn  ordered  fresh  locks  and  chains  to  be 
added  to  make  it  fast.     Baths  there  were  also,  and  on 


tl  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

the  hills  summer  houses  and  huertas  moistened  by  foun- 
tains and  streams,  the  dark  Tagus  making,  as  it  were, 
a  defence  and  barrier  about  the  walls. 

One  plaisance  there  was,  particularly  noted,  on  a 
terrace  overhanging  the  river,  where  the  spires  and 
domes  of  many-painted  pavilions  uprose,  with  tile-paved 
patios,  and  arcades  and  miradores  open  to  the  sky, 
which  Roderich  had  formed  for  Egilona,  from  the 
pattern  of  a  Moorish  retreat  she  loved  at  Algiers.  Here 
soft  fluffy  plane-trees  whispered  to  the  breeze,  violets 
blossomed  in  low  damp  trenches  and  the  blue-green 
fronds  of  the  palms  cut  against  the  sky.  A  garden, 
indeed,  most  cunningly  adapted  to  intoxicate  the  senses, 
where  every  tree  and  branch  was  vocal  with  nightingale 
and  thrush,  the  soft  rhythm  of  zambras  and  flutes  thrilling 
through  the  boughs  from  invisible  orchestras;  a  place  in 
itself  so  lovely  and  so  lonely  that  life  passed  by  in  an 
atmosphere  of  delight,  akin  to  the  houri-haunted  para- 
dise prepared  for  the  brave  Moslems  who  fall  in  battle. 
Hither  came  Egilona,  as  into  the  solitude  of  an  Eastern 
harem,  shut  out  from  the  foot  of  man.  Even  Roderich 
rarely  entered  to  disturb  her  hours  of  innocent  delight, 
surrounded  by  a  band  of  fair  damsels,  who,  like  Florinda, 
had  been  committed  to  her  care. 

It  was  a  delicious  evening  after  a  day  of  fiery  heat. 
So  oppressive  had  been  the  sun,  that  even  the  orange 
leaves  flagged  on  their  stems  and  the  song-birds  were 
mute.  In  the  broad  plains  without,  the  rarefied  air 
trembled;  nothing  but  the  sharp  note  of  the  cicala  broke 
the  silence  of  midday. 

Now  the  air  was  cool  in  these  leafy  gardens,   over- 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  63 

hanging  the  river,  from  which  delicate  rippling  gusts 
rose  up  to  fan  the  atmosphere.  The  dazzling  pavilions 
with  open  galleries  lay  in  shadow,  and  only  a  transient 
ray  from  the  setting  sun  lit  up  some  detail  of  lace- 
worked  panel  or  gilded  pinnacle  into  a  transient 
flame. 

On  a  broad  terrace,  from  which  the  roofs  of  the 
city  were  dimmed  into  vague  outlines,  a  merry  party  of 
the  queen's  maidens  emerge  from  one  of  the  galleries, 
amid  peals  of  that  shrill  and  joyous  laughter  heard  only 
among  the  young,  and  running  swiftly  along  scare  the 
peacocks,  who  drop  their  tails  and  fly  into  the  covered 
avenues  beyond.  Some  ensconce  themselves  in  verdant 
kiosks,  others  wander  into  the  bamboo-thickets  to  lie  on 
flowery  banks,  or  wade  in  the  shallow  streams  which 
flow  around.  One  delicately-limbed  girl,  oppressed  by 
the  heat,  divests  herself  of  the  light  draperies  she  wears, 
and  like  a  playful  Nereid  plunges  into  a  pool,  scattering 
water  on  her  laughing  companions. 

One  of  these  maidens,  Zora  by  name,  who  had 
come  from  Barbary  with  Egilona,  is  of  a  darker  colour- 
ing than  the  rest.  Zora  can  sing  to  the  cyther  and 
relate  stories  like  a  true  Arab  as  she  is.  Now  a  circle 
of  her  companions  gather  about  her,  and  beg  her  to  tell 
them  a  tale. 

"But  you  have  heard  all  my  stories  so  often," 
pleads  poor  Zora,  whose  little  feet  are  tingling  with  the 
desire  of  movement  after  the  confinement  of  the  long 
hot  day. 

"Never  mind,  you  must  invent  a  new  one,  Zora." 
A  cloud  passes  over  her  merry  face.  ''Invent  a  story! 
Well,  I  will  try,"  and  after  a  few  minutes  she  seats  her- 


64  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

self  on  a  porcelain  bench  under  a  clump  of  cedars,  and 
begins. 

Zora's  Story. 

"There  were  once  three  sisters,  I  don't  know  where, 
but  they  were  princesses.  They  had  an  ugly  old  father 
with  one  eye,  who  shut  them  up  in  a  tower  high  in  a 
wall.  They  were  never  to  go  out,  and  had  an  old  slave 
to  watch  them;  her  name  was  Wenza,  and  there  was  a 
eunuch  too,  who  carried  a  scimitar;  but  he  does  not 
matter,  for  he  stayed  out  of  doors. 

"Now  the  tower  was  very  beautiful,  only  the  sisters 
did  not  like  it,  because  they  called  it  a  prison.  There 
was  z.  patio  with  an  alabaster  fountain,  which  kept  up 
a  running  murmur  day  and  night;  the  walls  were 
wrought  in  a  coloured  net-work  of  flowers,  and  arches 
and  angles  were  worked  beautifully  to  look  like  crystal 
caves.  All  around  were  the  sweetest  little  rooms  for 
the  sisters  to  sleep  in,  not  forgetting  Wenza,  who,  they 
said,  snored,  so  she  was  put  in  the  furthest  one.  The 
walls  were  hung  with  golden  tapestry,  and  the  divans 
worked  with  shells  and  stones.  So  beautiful!  Like  a 
casket!  There  were  curtains  with  monsters  and  beasts 
embroidered  in  fine  silk  hung  at  the  doors  to  keep  out 
draughts,  and  so  many  singing-birds  in  golden  cages, 
that  there  were  times  when  they  could  not  hear  them- 
selves speak.  A  little  kitchen  too,  lay  in  a  corner, 
where  Wenza  cooked  the  food,  but  the  sisters  lived  on 
cakes  and  fruit  quite  in  a  fairy-like  way,  which  often 
made  Wenza  say  she  knew  she  would  be  starved,  only 
the  eunuch  was  kind  and  handed  in  sometimes  on  his 
scimitar  a  piece  of  meat.     High  up  in  the  walls  were 


OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  65 

barred  casemates,  but  oh!  so  small,  mere  slits  and  the 
princesses  often  tore  their  robes  clambering  up  to  look 
out.  They  could  see  the  sky — a  passing  cloud  was 
a  variety,  but  what  delighted  them  most,  and  indeed 
occupied  the  day,  when  they  were  not  playing  on  lutes 
and  cythers,  or  teaching  tricks  to  the  birds,  was  a 
rocky  valley,  oh!  so  deep  down!  They  could  just  see 
it.  The  sun  never  shone  there,  and  the  rocks  looked 
always  damp.  A  valley,  and  a  stream  with  a  strange 
echo  like  voices,  only  what  it  said  was  past  their  power 
to  know,  and  Wenza  could  not  help  them,  she  only 
pulled  them  down  from  the  windows  and  scolded  them, 
and  threatened  she  would  call  in  the  eunuch  with  his 
drawn  sword.  But  Wenza  liked  to  hear  about  it  all  the 
same,  and  asked  often  if  the  voices  of  the  stream  had 
spoken  more  plainly. 

"The  only  one  who  minded  what  Wenza  said  was 
the  youngest  princess,  Zeda.  She  was  much  more 
timid  than  her  sisters,  with  cheeks  as  white  as  a  lily. 
She  could  touch  the  stops  of  a  silver  lute  and  sing 
Moorish  ballads.  She  was  so  gentle;  she  would  nurse 
a  sick  bird  in  her  warm  hand  for  hours  and  hours, 
and  feed  the  little  starlings  that  settled  on  the  window 
edge.  All  day  she  was  in  and  out  about  the  flowers, 
which  stood  in  pots  round  the  fountain  and  lived  on 
the  spray. 

"Zoda,  the  second,  was  very  vain,  and  looked  at 
herself  in  a  steel  mirror  twenty  times  a  day,  painting 
her  eyes  and  trimming  her  hair,  and  Lindaxara,  the 
eldest,  was  proud,  and  would  sometimes  beat  poor 
gentle  Zeda  when  she  offended  her." 

"And  their  clothes?"   asked  a  little  Gothic  maiden 

Old  Court  Life  in  Spain,  /»  5 


66  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

interrupting  her,  "you  have  told  us  nothing  of  their 
clothes." 

"Ah!  that  is  true,"  and  Zora  paused  and  thought 
a  little.  "Well!  they  were  all  in  tunics  of  white  satin 
with  gemmed  waistbands  and  borders,  and  trousers  of 
Broussa  gauze,  lined  with  rose  colour,  Httle  caps  upon 
their  heads  twinkling  with  coins,  and  necklaces  of  pearl. 
Very  lovely  clothes,  I  assure  you,  and  they  looked 
lovely  too  standing  with  the  spray  of  the  fountain  be- 
hind them. 

"Well,"  continued  Zora,  growing  eager  herself  as 
her  tale  went  on,  and  the  eyes  of  all  her  companions 
riveted  on  her,  "you  may  fancy  what  it  was,  when 
Lindaxara,  who  was  tall  and  slim,  clambered  up  one 
day  to  the  latticed  window  and  saw  three  Christian 
knights,  working  among  the  stones  in  the  valley  below. 
She  was  so  astonished  that  she  gave  a  loud  scream, 
which  brought  her  sisters  and  Wenza  to  the  window. 
So  there  was  no  secret  about  it,  and  they  all  strained 
their  necks  as  far  as  the  bars  would  let  them. 

"Just  to  think  of  it!  Three  adorable  knights  in  the 
flower  of  youth.  Eyes  full  of  love,  and  the  sweetest 
heads  of  hair,  not  cut  and  trimmed  like  the  Arabs' 
under  big  turbans,  but  hanging  loose  in  curls  upon 
their  shoulders.  Captives,  alas!  loaded  with  chains! 
The  tears  came  into  the  sisters'  eyes  as  they  gazed. 
*The  one  in  green,'  cries  Lindaxara,  thrilling  all  over  as 
she  leant  out  of  the  bars,  'he  is  my  knight.  What 
grace!     What  beauty!' 

"'No,  the  crimson  one  for  me,'  says  Zoda,  arrang- 
ing her  hair.  *I  love  him  already.  He  shall  never  be 
a  slave.' 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  67 

"Gentle  little  Zeda  said  nothing,  but  heaved  a  great 
sigh.  *No  one  will  ever  care  for  me/  she  whispers,  'but 
it  is  that  other  one  I  like  best.  He  has  such  a  heavenly 
smile." 

"After  which,  Wenza,  suddenly  remembering  her 
duty,  drove  them  all  down,  and  shut  up  the  window. 
But  too  late,  the  harm  was  done,  Wenza  protested,  but 
she  was  the  worst  of  all.  The  eunuch  was  bribed  by 
her  with  so  much  gold,  he  put  up  his  scimitar,  and  did 
all  that  he  was  bid. 

"The  Christian  knights  were  told  that  three  beautiful 
princesses,  daughters  of  the  one-eyed  king,  loved  them. 
It  made  them  very  happy  in  spite  of  their  chains. 
They  managed  to  talk  together  by  signs  and  arrange 
their  plans. 

"One  night,  when  the  moon  was  sinking,  and  all 
was  still,  a  whistle,  heard  from  below,  strikes  on  im- 
patient ears.  The  bars  had  been  sawn  from  the  window 
by  the  eunuch,  who  was  strong,  and  Wenza  had  cut 
the  sheets  into  strips  and  tied  them  all  together  into  a 
long  rope;  then  one  by  one  they  went  down,  at  first 
trembling,  but  quite  brave  and  glad  at  last,  as  they 
fell  into  the  arms  of  the  Christian  knights,  Wenza  into 
the  arms  of  the  eunuch,  who  took  care  of  her — all  save 
poor  little  Zeda. 

"When  it  came  to  her  turn  to  descend,  she  had  no 
courage  to  move,  but  stood  at  the  window  clasping  her 
hands,  and  casting  down  wistful  glances  on  her  sisters. 
Now  her  fingers  are  on  the  cord,  then  she  withdraws 
them;  she  sees  her  Christian  knight  beckoning  to  her; 
listens,  listens  as  the  stream  calls  Zeda.  Again  she 
grasps  the  cord.     In  vain,  her  heart  failed  her. 


68  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIIJ. 

"'Too  late,  too  late,  dear  sisters,'  she  cries.  'Go 
forth  and  be  happy.  Think  sometimes  of  the  poor 
little  prisoner  left  behind.'  And  so,"  concludes  Zora, 
evidently  at  a  loss  how  to  finish  her  tale,  "Ansa,  the 
one-eyed  king,  her  father,  coming  to  visit  his  daughters, 
found  her  alone,  and  condemned  her  to  die  of  hunger 
in  the  tower. 

"Poor  little  Zeda!  But  she  still  lives  in  the  spirit 
of  the  fountain,  when  it  boils  and  bubbles  at  night  in 
the  form  of  a  Moslem  Princess,  flower-crowned,  singing 
to  a  silver  lute.     'Ay  de  mi  Zeda!'" 


A  great  clapping  of  hands,  and  many  thanks  to 
Zora  for  the  story,  greeted  its  conclusion.  The  little 
Gothic  maiden,  who  was  very  fond  of  Zora,  cried  at 
the  fate  of  the  poor  princess  starved  to  death.  She 
is  sure  none  of  them  were  comelier  than  Zora;  and  in 
this  she  speaks  truly.  An  African  sun  had  dyed  her 
skin  to  a  ruddier  colour,  given  symmetry  to  her  limbs, 
and  a  dark  fire  to  her  eyes.  As  a  stranger  Zora  is  by 
turns  laughed  at  and  petted.  And  as  the  setting  sun 
now  catches  the  swarthy  ebony  of  her  long  hair,  and 
blazes  on  the  rich  brown  of  her  cheek,  the  difference 
between  her  and  the  rest  suddenly  strikes  a  lively  little 
playmate,  who  is  forming  a  pattern  on  the  ground  from 
the  coloured  petals  of  roses. 

"I  should  like  to  know,"  says  she,  contemplating 
Zora,  "which  is  prettiest,  dark  Zora  with  the  flashing 
eyes,  or  pale  Florinda  with  the  chestnut  curls.  In  my 
opinion  Zora  is  worth  a  whole  bevy  of  us  white-faced 
Goths." 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  69 

"No,  no,  no,"  echoes  from  all  sides,  while  poor 
Zora,  put  to  shame,  blushes  under  her  tawny  skin  and 
retreats  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  garden. 

"I  will  not  give  the  palm  of  beauty  to  Zora,"  cries 
another  voice,  "but  to  Florinda.  Where  is  she?"  A 
general  search  is  made  for  a  long  time  in  vain,  but  at 
last  she  is  discovered  fast  asleep  under  a  palm.  Slumber 
has  lent  a  lustre  to  her  cheek,  and  her  white  bosom 
rises  and  falls  under  the  transparent  tissue  of  her 
bodice. 

"Look!"  cry  the  maidens  exultingly,  "can  you  com- 
pare Zora  with  Florinda?"  And  in  their  eagerness 
the  giddy  group  tear  asunder  the  sheltering  draperies 
which  cling  about  her. 

Alas!  little  did  they  know,  these  joyous  maidens, 
that  the  fate  of  the  Gothic  kingdom  turned  on  the 
balance  of  their  childish  games,  and  that,  mere  puppets 
in  the  hands  of  fate,  they  were  destined  to  be  the  in- 
struments of  destruction  to  their  country! 

In  the  gloom  that  precedes  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
amid  the  dusky  shadows  of  huge-leaved  plants  and 
myrtle  hedges  which  broke  the  space  into  squares  in 
every  direction,  Don  Roderich  had  stolen  from  the 
Alcazar  to  enjoy  the  evening  freshness  and  to  visit  the 
queen.  Hearing  from  afar  the  bursts  of  girlish  laughter, 
at  the  contest  of  beauty  between  dark  and  fair,  he 
looked  out  from  the  latticed  miradore  of  the  pavilion, 
and  beheld  the  undraped  form  of  Florinda  before  she 
can  escape  from  the  hands  of  her  companions. 

That  glance  is  fatal.  Forgetful  of  the  sacred 
pledges  given  to  her  father,  forgetful  of  his  honour  as 
a  knight  and  his  gratitude  as  a  king,  a  mighty  passion 


70  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN. 

rises  within  his  breast.  But  Florinda  gave  no  response; 
his  fervid  glances  were  met  with  downcast  eyes,  and  a 
blush  rises  on  her  cheek  as  she  involuntarily  ap- 
proaches him.  This  did  but  serve  to  fan  his  lawless 
love;  and  so  great  is  his  infatuation  he  could  not  per- 
suade himself  that  she  did  not  return  it.  His  whole 
soul  is  as  a  furnace,  which  consumes  his  life.  Speak  to 
her  he  must,  and  a  wicked  hope  whispers  it  will  not  be 
in  vain! 

Meeting  her  one  day,  a  little  later,  by  chance  in 
the  queen's  antechamber,  he  called  her  to  him,  and  pre- 
sented to  her  his  hand. 

"Sweet  one,"  says  he,  in  a  voice  he  could  scarcely 
command,  every  pulse  within  him  beating  tumultuously, 
"a  thorn  has  sorely  pricked  me,  can  you  draw  it  out?" 

Florinda,  who  unconsciously  had  come  rather  to 
fear  him,  kneels  at  his  feet  and  takes  his  hand  in  hers. 
At  the  touch  of  her  light  fingers  a  tremor  runs  through 
his  frame.  Was  this  slight  girl  to  resist  the  transports 
that  shake  his  being  to  the  core,  as  the  fury  of  the 
tempest  shakes  the  Hght  leaves? 

As  she  kneels  the  tresses  of  her  auburn  hair  fall 
as  a  veil  around  her,  and  blush  after  blush  flushes  her 
cheeks.  Vainly  she  seeks  for  the  thorn  in  Don  Rode- 
rich's  hand.  In  her  surprise  she  lifts  her  eyes  to  his, 
which  are  bent  on  her  with  ill-controlled  passion;  then, 
starting  to  her  feet  in  confusion,  "My  lord,"  she  says, 
retreating  from  where  he  stands  leaning  against  a  painted 
pillar,  his  jewelled  cap  pressed  down  upon  his  brows, 
"there  is  no  thorn." 

She  turns   to  go,   filled   with   an   apprehension    she 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN.  7  I 

cannot  explain,  but  he  catches  her  hand,  and  presses  it 
to  his  heart. 

"Here,  here  is  the  thorn,  Florinda;  will  you  pluck 
that  out?" 

"My  lord,  my  lord,"  cries  the  alarmed  girl,  "I  do 
not  catch  your  meaning." 

"Then  I  will  teach  you,"  he  answers,  fast  losing 
command  over  himself.  "Do  you  love  me?"  and  he 
draws  her  to  him  so  near  that  his  quick-coming  breath 
plays  upon  her  cheek. 

Ever  farther  and  farther  she  strives  to  retreat;  ever 
nearer  and  nearer  Don  Roderich  presses  her,  his  glow- 
ing eyes  resting  on  her  like  flames. 

"My  lord,"  she  says  at  last,  trembling  from  head 
to  foot,  "my  father  told  me  to  revere  you  as  himself  I 
was  to  be  to  you  and  to  the  queen  as  a  daughter.  To 
your  protection  I  look,  may  it  never  fail." 

A  terrible  fear  possesses  her  of  coming  danger,  as 
she  shapes  her  words  to  this  appeal,  and  had  a  spark 
of  loyalty  remained  in  the  heart  of  Don  Roderich,  her 
reproof  would  have  brought  him  to  a  better  mind,  but  an 
evil  destiny  had  doomed  him  to  work  out  his  own  ruin. 

"Florinda,"  he  cries,  seizing  her  by  both  hands  so 
as  to  draw  her  to  him  by  force,  "innocent  as  you  are, 
you  must  understand  me.  It  is  not  the  love  for  a 
father  nor  the  submission  to  a  king  I  ask  of  you.  It  is 
love.  Ah!  tremble  not,  fair  one,  there  is  nothing  to 
scare  you.  None  shall  know  it.  Deep  in  our  hearts  it 
shall  lie.  Nor  does  the  love  of  your  king  degrade  you 
like  that  of  a  common  man.  All  the  power  of  the  Gothic 
throne  shall  compass  you  with  delights,  and  I  will  make 
your  father  Julian  greater  than  myself." 


72  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPALV. 

At  these  base  words  the  rising  terror  of  Florinda 
gave  place  to  indignation.  Her  soft  eyes  kindle  with  a 
far  different  fire  than  that  which  Don  Roderich  would 
have  desired. 

"I  understand,  my  lord,"  she  answers,  in  a  firm 
voice;  "but  none  of  my  race  hold  power  by  evil  means. 
My  father  would  rather  die  than  accept  such  dishonour. 
But,"  and  an  ill-assured  smile  plays  about  her  mouth, 
"I  believe  you  mean  but  to  try  me;  you  think  me  too 
stupid  and  childish  to  serve  the  queen.  I  pray  your 
pardon  for  taking  a  jest  in  such  foolish  earnest." 

The  blanched  face  of  Florinda  ill-corresponded  with 
the  words  which  her  quivering  lips  could  scarcely 
articulate. 

"May  I  die,"  cries  Don  Roderich,  "if  I  speak  aught 
but  truth.  My  heart,  my  kingdom,  are  at  your  com- 
mand. Be  mine,  fair  angel,  and  the  Goths  shall  know 
no  rule  but  yours." 

But  now,  the  courage  of  Florinda,  timid  and  girlish 
as  she  was,  rises  up  within  her.  "My  lord,  I  am  in 
your  power,"  are  her  words.  "You  may  kill  me,  but 
there  you  stop.  My  will  you  can  never  force,"  then, 
casting  up  her  arms  with  a  gesture  of  despair,  she  fled, 
vanishing  among  the  long  lines  of  pillars  in  the  hall; 
and  such  had  been  the  power  of  her  anger,  that  the 
king  dared  not  follow  her.  And  here  we  must  leave 
her  with  a  wonder  whether  the  assiduous  worship  paid 
her  by  Roderich  was  always  repulsed  with  a  like  vigour, 
or  if  the  opprobrious  name  of  La  Cava  with  which  she 
came  to  be  branded  in  the  legends  of  the  time  was  not 
undeserv^ed. 

That  the  king  was  so  deprived  by  the   indulgence 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  73 

of  his  life  as  not  to  be  haunted  by  the  shame  of  what 
he  had  done  is  difficult  to  believe.  That  he  counted, 
however,  on  the  secrecy  of  Florinda  would  seem  certain 
from  the  indifference  he  displayed  to  the  consequences 
of  his  action  as  affecting  his  relations  with  Julian,  at 
that  very  time  leading  his  army  against  the  Moorish 
hosts,  commanded  by  the  veteran  general,  Mousa,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Ceuta. 

"Those  whom  the  gods  forsake,  they  blind,"  says 
the  Pagan  proverb.  It  is  certainly  impossible  to  ex- 
plain the  inactivity  of  the  once  valiant  Roderich  by  any 
rational  course  of  reasoning.  Not  only  had  the  rumour 
of  approaching  battle  come  from  the  African  shore,  but 
swift  messengers  had  brought  to  Toledo  the  news  that 
the  rock  of  Calpe  (Gibraltar)  in  Spain  bristled  with 
scimitars,  led  by  the  ferocious  old  Berber,  Tharyk,  with 
his  single  eye. 

"Tell  Roderich  the  Goth,"  ran  the  message,  "that 
Tharyk  has  crossed  the  Straits  to  conquer  his  kingdom, 
and  that  he  will  not  return  until  he  has  made  the  Goth 
lick  the  dust  before  him." 

Whatever  blindness  had  fallen  on  Roderich,  the  con- 
sciousness of  her  disgrace  soon  forced  itself  on  the 
mind  of  Florinda.  Guilty  or  not  despair  at  last  took 
possession  of  her.  For  a  time  she  was  silent,  but  un- 
able to  endure  her  shame,  and  horrified  at  her  treason 
towards  the  queen,  who  ever  tenderly  cherished  her,  in 
a  paroxysm  of  remorseful  grief  she  caught  up  a  pen 
and  wrote  to  Julian: 

"Would  to  God,  my  father,  that  the  earth  had 
swallowed   me   ere  I  came  to  Toledo!    What  am  I  to 


74  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

tell  you  of  that  which  it  is  meet  to  conceal?  Alas!  my 
father,  your  lamb  has  been  entrusted  to  the  wolf.  She 
were  better  dead  than  dishonoured.  Hasten  to  rescue 
your  unhappy  Florinda.     Come  quickly." 

Tying  this  brief  missive  in  a  square  of  silk,  and 
fastening  it  with  a  ribbon,  she  called  to  her  a  young 
page,  bred  at  her  father's  court,  who  had  been  especially 
appointed  to  her  service. 

"Adolfo,"  said  she,  and  sobs  were  in  her  voice, 
"saddle  the  swiftest  steed  you  can  lay  hands  on,  and  if 
ever,  dear  nino,  you  aspire  to  the  honours  of  a  belted 
knight  in  the  service  of  my  father,  or  hope  for  lady's 
grace  in  the  tournay;  if  ever — "  here  she  burst  into  a 
flood  of  tears,  moved  by  her  own  vehemence.  "Oh, 
sweet  Adolfo,  dear  little  page,  reared  up  in  my  home, 
for  the  love  of  Christ,  ride  day  and  night  until  you 
reach  the  sea.  Then,  at  the  price  of  gold,  which  I 
give  you,"  and  she  places  in  his  hands  a  heavy  purse, 
"take  the  best  boat  and  the  swiftest  rowers,  and  with 
flowing  sail  speed  to  my  father  at  Ceuta,  nor  eat 
or  drink  until  you  have  placed  this  writing  in  his 
hand." 

Before  the  eager  Florinda,  whose  every  feature  spoke 
the  deadly  anxiety  she  felt,  the  page,  cap  in  hand,  bows 
low. 

"Trust  me,  noble  daughter  of  my  honoured  lord.  I 
will  truly  execute  your  trust.  Swiftly  will  I  ride,  nor  turn 
aside  for  aught  but  death,  either  by  land  or  sea." 

Placing  the  letter  in  the  bosom  of  his  gaudy  vest, 
he  kissed  her  hand  and  sped  his  way,  mounted  a  fast 
horse  he  found  in  the  patio  of  the  Palace,  galloped 
down  the  declivity,  through   the  Golden  Gate,   and   so 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  75 

on  into  the  eternal  plains  which  gird  about  Toledo, 
until  clouds  of  dust  conceal  him  from  Florinda's  anxious 
gaze. 


Meanwhile,  Julian,  fighting  valiantly  in  Africa,  has 
just  repulsed  an  attack  of  Mousa  on  the  castle  of  Ceuta, 
standing  on  a  cape  which  juts  out  into  the  Straits,  the 
nearest  point  to  the  Spanish  mainland.  It  was  a  des- 
perate struggle;  the  Moors,  under  the  command  of  the 
famous  Arab,  rallying  again  and  again. 

The  news  of  such  a  success  spread  round  not  only 
in  Africa  but  over  all  the  breadth  of  Spain.  The  land- 
ing of  the  Moors  in  Andalusia  was  a  constant  subject 
of  terror  on  the  mainland.  Men  knew  that  the  Gothic 
nation  no  longer  held  together  as  under  the  early  kings, 
and  that  each  chief  looked  to  himself  alone,  caring  but 
little  what  became  of  his  neighbours.  The  castles  were 
dismantled  by  the  selfish  policy  of  Witica  and  Roderich, 
and  the  army  was  sunk  into  the  same  luxurious  ease  as 
the  rest  of  the  nation. 

The  name  of  Julian  was  soon  on  every  lip.  He  was 
hailed  as  a  saviour,  and  blessings  invoked  on  him  as 
the  bulwark  of  the  Cross. 

With  the  sound  of  this  homage  ringing  in  his  ears, 
the  page  arrives  at  Ceuta,  bearing  the  letter  from 
Florinda.  Julian  at  once  summons  him  to  his  tent,  as 
perchance  the  bearer  of  some  signal  honour  bestowed 
upon  him  by  the  king,  or  of  some  royal  recompense  for 
his  services. 

"What  tidings  from  Don  Roderich?"  he  asks. 

"None,  my  lord,"  is  the  answer.     "I  rode  in  haste 


76  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

away,  without  seeing  the  king.  What  I  bear  is  a  letter 
from  the  Lady  Florinda." 

"Florinda — how  fares  she?" 

"Well,  my  lord,"  answers  the  page,  as  he  takes  the 
silken  packet  from  his  bosom. 

Cutting  the  ribbon  that  binds  it  with  his  dagger, 
Julian  reads  the  miserable  lines;  word  after  word  brings 
a  terrible  certainty  to  his  mind;  he  stands  in  speechless 
anguish,  then,  flinging  the  parchment  from  him,  he 
folds  his  arms,  while  one  by  one  the  burning  remem- 
brance of  each  act  of  devotion  to  Roderich  stings  him 
to  the  soul.  It  is  a  terrible  reckoning:  a  dark  and 
malignant  fury  enters  into  his  soul,  not  only  against 
Roderich,  but  against  all  Spain,  the  scene  of  his  dis- 
honour, the  home  of  his  disgrace. 

"And  this,"  cries  he,  when  words  came  to  his  lips, 
"is  ray  reward  for  serving  a  villain!  This  is  the  return 
he  makes  me  for  the  hostage  of  my  child!  May  I  die 
a  slave  if  I  rest  until  I  have  given  him  full  measure  in 
return ! " 


CHAPTER   IV. 
DON  JULIAN   GOES    OVER   TO   THE  MOORS. 

Julian's  first  object  is,  without  exciting  suspicion, 
to  remove  his  daughter  from  Toledo.  Full  of  the  pro- 
ject of  revenge,  he  crosses  the  Straits  and  repairs  to 
the  Court  Wherever  he  appears  he  is  hailed  as  the 
leader  to  whose  prowess  the  nation  owes  its  safety. 
Roderich,  counting  on  the  silence  of  Florinda,  receives 
him  with  a  frank  and  generous  welcome,  and  loads  him 
with  new  honours.     Julian,  meanwhile,  artfully  magnifies 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  77 

the  present  danger  which  threatens  the  frontier,  and 
prepares  all  things  for  his  return  to  Africa.  For  Florinda 
he  obtains  leave  of  absence  from  the  queen  "to  attend 
upon  her  mother  Frandina,  dangerously  ill  at  Algeciras." 
Together  they  cross  the  bridge  of  the  Tagus,  followed 
by  the  shouting  populace,  but  as  his  horse's  hoofs  strike 
on  the  opposite  bank  he  raises  his  mailed  hand,  and 
shakes  it  in  the  air  as  he  turns  his  eyes  towards  the 
Alcazar. 

"My  curse  rest  on  thee,  Don  Roderich!"  are  his 
words.  "May  desolation  fall  on  thy  dwelling  and  thy 
realm ! " 

Journeying  on  with  Florinda,  he  came  to  a  wild  range 
of  mountains  near  Consucara, — still  called  the  Mountain 
of  Treason — where  he  meets  his  kinsman,  Archbishop 
Opas,  and  his  wife  Frandina,  a  formidable  amazon,  who 
not  only  followed  her  lord  in  battle,  but  concentrated  in 
herself  all  the  duplicity  of  her  brother. 

She  had  long  hated  Roderich  for  his  marriage  with 
Egilona,  now  she  could  revenge  herself. 

"I  would  rather  die,"  she  exclaims,  as  she  gazed  at 
Florinda,  prostrate  at  her  feet,  "than  submit  to  this  out- 
rage!" 

"Be  satisfied,"  replies  Don  Julian;  "she  shall  be 
avenged.  Opas  will  bind  our  friends  by  dreadful  oaths. 
I  myself  will  go  to  Africa  to  seek  great  Mousa,  and 
negotiate  his  aid." 

•  •  •  •  • 

From  Malaga  Julian  embarked  for  Africa  with 
Frandina  and  Florinda,  his  treasure  and  his  household, 
and  ever  since  the  gate  in  the  city  wall  through  which 
they  passed  is  called  Puerta  de  la   Cava  (Gate  of  the 


78  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

Harlot),  by  which  name  the  unhappy  Florinda  was  known 
among  the  Moors. 

The  dark  tents  of  the  Moslems  are  spread  in  a 
pastoral  valley  at  the  foot  of  the  billowy  chain  of  hills 
which  follow  along  the  north  of  Barbary  (as  it  was  called 
of  old);  outshoots  from  the  great  Atlas  range  which 
towers  in  the  far  distance.  A  motley  host  from  Egypt 
and  Mauritania — Saracens,  Tartars,  Syrians,  Copts  and 
Berbers, — all.  Christian  or  Moslem,  fair-skinned  or  negro, 
united  under  the  banner  of  Mousa,  Governor  of  North 
Africa  for  the  Caliph  of  Damascus,  a  man  long  past 
middle  life,  but  who  conceals  his  years  cunningly. 

As  Mousa  sat  to  administer  justice  among  the  mixed 
tribes  of  his  host,  raised  on  a  divan  covered  with  sheep- 
skins, under  a  wide-spreading  oak,  near  which  a  rapid 
streamlet  ran  down  into  the  sea,  the  flag  of  Islam  float- 
ing beside  him,  Tharyk,  his  lieutenant,  on  his  right 
hand — a  bugle  sounds  from  above  among  the  hills,  and 
the  gay  apparel  of  a  herald  appears  in  the  distance, 
attended  by  a  single  trumpeter.  Cautiously  descending 
the  steep  path  among  a  forest-like  grove,  the  herald, 
bearing  on  his  tabard  the  Gothic  arms,  pauses  at  the 
base;  the  trumpeter  sounds  another  loud  blast,  then 
both  ride  boldly  into  the  circle  gathered  round  Mousa. 
After  an  obeisance,  responded  to  in  silence  by  the 
astonished  Moors,  he  speaks,  lowering  his  cognisance 
before  the  chief:  "I  demand,"  says  he,  "a  safe  passage 
for  my  master,  Don  Julian  Espatorios  of  Spain,  under 
King  Roderich  the  Goth.  Can  he  come  without  danger 
to  Hfe  and  limb  and  depart  when  he  lists?" 

To  which  Mousa,  touching  with  the  tips  of  his 
fingers  the   folds   of  the   green  turban  which  he  wore, 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  79 

then    carrying    them    down   and   crossing   them   on   his 
chest,  in  an  Eastern  salute  of  ceremony,  replies, — 

"The  demand  of  Don  Julian  is  granted.  Let  my 
noble  adversary  advance  without  fear.  So  brave  a  leader 
shall  eat  of  our  salt  were  he  ten  times  our  foe." 

Clad  in  a  complete  suit  of  armour,  and  mounted  on 
a  powerful  charger,  Julian  appears.  A  surcoat  of  black 
is  over  his  armour,  his  legs  are  encased  in  fluted  steel, 
and  on  his  helmet  rests  a  sable  plume.  Behind  him 
rides  his  esquire,  bearing  his  lance  and  shield.  With 
grave  courtesy  he  salutes  the  Moslem  chiefs  whom  he 
has  so  lately  defeated,  then,  upon  the  motion  of  Mousa, 
who  rises  at  his  approach,  dismounts,  and,  flinging  the 
bridle  to  his  esquire,  takes  the  place  assigned  to  him. 

The  deep-set  eyes  of  Julian,  for  he  wears  his  vizor 
raised,  are  fixed  on  the  face  of  Mousa,  who,  with  the 
refinement  of  Eastern  courtesy,  affects  to  smile,  although 
much  exercised  in  his  mind  as  to  what  motive  can 
have  induced  his  adversary  thus  voluntarily  to  place 
himself  in  his  power.  His  lieutenant  Tharyk,  a  rough 
warrior,  gifted  with  little  command  over  his  countenance, 
glares  at  him  meanwhile  out  of  his  single  eye  with  un- 
concealed hatred. 

An  awkward  pause  follows,  broken  only  by  the  low 
ripple  of  the  brook,  carolling  swiftly  over  the  glancing 
pebbles,  which  separates  Julian  from  Mousa,  thus  as  it 
were  symbolising  the  position  of  the  late  combatants  by 
its   slender  barrier.     At  last  Julian   speaks:    "Hitherto, 

0  Emir  of  the  Faithful,  we  have  met  as  enemies.     Now 

1  am    come    to    offer    you   my   country   and   my  king. 
Country,"   he   repeats   bitterly,   as   a   dark   frown   over- 


80  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

shadows  his  face,  pale  under  his  helmet,  "I  have  none; 
Roderich  the  Goth  is  my  deadliest  enemy.  He  has 
blasted  the  honour  of  my  name.  Aid  me,  O  Mousa,  to 
revenge,  and  all  Spain  is  in  your  hand." 

Not  even  the  grave  immobility  of  countenance  in 
which  the  Moslem  is  trained  to  conceal  his  emotions 
could  altogether  prevent  the  movement  of  amazement 
with  which  this  speech  was  received  by  Mousa  and 
Tharyk  and  those  around.  What  motive,  however,  was 
powerful  enough  to  cause  Julian  thus  to  present  himself 
in  the  face  of  the  assembled  chiefs  of  Islam  mattered 
not  to  Mousa.  Juhan  had  spoken,  and  his  heart  leapt 
within  him  at  the  words.  How  often  had  he  gazed  on 
the  low  hills  along  the  Spanish  coast  washed  by  the 
Straits!  How  often  had  he  longed  to  possess  himself  of 
the  fair  plains  lying  beyond:  a  land  rich  with  rivers 
and  pastures,  vines,  olives  and  pomegranates,  splendid 
cities  and  castles,  flowing  with  milk  and  honey — and 
now  it  was  his  own!  But,  wary  by  nature,  and  cautious 
by  age,  the  henna-stained  warrior  (for  it  was  said  of 
Mousa  that,  to  retain  his  youthful  appearance,  he  dyed 
his  hair  and  beard)  pauses  ere  he  replies,  and  turns 
towards  the  sheikhs  who  sat  around, — 

"Don  Julian,"  says  he,  affecting  to  knit  his  bushy 
eyebrows,  "comes  here  as  a  traitor.  The  same  treason 
may  be  hidden  in  his  word  that  he  shows  to  his  own 
master.  But  lately  he  held  the  garrisons  of  the  Goths 
against  us  in  the  stronghold  of  Ceuta,  and  prevailed. 
The  faithful  were  driven  out,  and  the  Arab  camp  broken. 
How  can  we  credit  him?  The  Koran  teaches  that  those 
who  deceive  an  enemy  are  blessed." 

"Ceuta!"   shouts  Juhan,  "yes,  O  Mousa,   you  have 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  8  I 

said  well.  It  is  true  I  drove  your  Moslems  from  the 
field  like  sheep  before  the  wolves.  Yes!"  (and  even 
as  he  speaks  his  voice  grows  loud  and  fierce)  "on  every 
side  I  was  hailed  as  a  deliverer,  and  my  heart  swelled 
within  me  as  I  thought  upon  the  victory  I  had  won. 
Then,  in  the  moment  when  the  shouts  of  the  Goths 
were  echoing  in  my  ears,  and  Roderich  made  of  me 
almost  a  king,  a  letter  came  to  my  hand."  Here  all 
expression  died  out  of  his  face,  his  powerful  frame 
seemed  to  stiffen  into  stone,  but  from  out  of  the  upraised 
bars  of  his  helmet  a  menacing  fire  shone  in  his  eyes, 
which  belied  the  seeming  calm  of  his  demeanour.  His 
gaze  is  fixed  on  Mousa,  not  as  though  he  perceived 
him,  but  rather  as  if  the  eyes  of  his  mind  are  ranging 
far  away  among  the  scenes  which  had  brought  him  to 
this  pass. 

"Explain,  noble  Goth,"  replies  Mousa,  "else  is  your 
coming  vain." 

Recalled  to  himself  by  the  Emir's  voice,  Julian 
proceeds;  but  he  visibly  faltered  as  the  words  came 
slowly  to  his  lips.  "The  dishonour  of  my  house  is  my 
reward.  My  name  is  blasted  while  Roderich  lives.  For 
this  purpose  am  I  come." 

"This  is  a  wild  tale,"  answers  Mousa,  crossing  his 
arms  within  the  draperies  of  his  robe.  "Your  own  words 
proclaim  you  a  traitor.  You  may  be  true.  If  false, 
Allah  judge  you!" 

Then  it  was  that  Thdryk-el-Tuerto  rose  and  stood 
forth  from  among  the  sheikhs,  his  one  eye  gleaming  with 
a  savage  joy. 

"Doubt  not  the  words  of  Don  Julian,  O  Emir,"  he 
cries.     "The   wrong  which  Roderich  has  wrought  him 

Old  Court  Life  in  Spain,  I.  6 


82  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

would  move  the  lowest  Berber  of  the  desert  to  revenge. 
By  his  offer,  O  Emir,  a  new  land  spreads  out  before  us, 
inviting  us  to  conquest.  What  is  to  prevent  us  from 
becoming  the  inheritors  of  the  Goth?  Let  me  go  forth 
with  Don  Julian  and  prove  the  land." 

The  bold  words  of  "the  one-eyed  Tharyk"  find 
favour  with  Mousa  and  the  chiefs.  "Allah  is  great,"  is 
their  answer.  "Mahomet  the  Prophet  speaks  by  the 
mouth  of  Tharyk.     Let  it  be  as  he  desires." 

So  Julian  and  Tharyk  departed  with  five  galleys  and 
five  hundred  men;  landed  at  Algeciras  in  the  Bay  of 
Gibraltar  (Gibel  Taric  to  this  day,  in  memory  of  him), 
and  returned  to  Africa  with  such  tidings  of  the  power 
of  Julian  to  raise  the  land,  that  a  formidable  invasion  is 
decided  on. 

CHAPTER    V. 
LANDING   OF  THE  MOORS. THE  EVE   OF  BATTLE. 

Don  Roderick,  seated  with  the  beauteous  Queen 
Egilona  in  the  royal  castle  of  Toledo,  eagerly  questions 
a  herald  sent  forward  by  Teodomir  from  Murcia. 

"What  tidings  from  the  south?"  he  asks. 

"Of  great  woe,"  is  the  answer.  "Already  the  rock 
of  Calpe  has  fallen.  The  noble  Teodomir  is  wounded. 
The  Gothic  troops,  O  King!  fly  before  the  Moslem. 
Whether  they  come  from  heaven  or  hell  we  know  not. 
They  have  no  ships,  yet  they  overrun  the  coast.  Send 
us  aid  with  speed." 

At  this  dismal  news  Roderich  turned  to  the  wall 
and  covered  his  face  with  his  robe.  Changed  as  he 
was    from    the    valorous    young    hero    of   earlier    days, 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  83 

enervated  and  sensual,  the  blood  of  brave  warriors 
flowed  in  his  veins,  and  shame  and  remorse  over- 
whelmed him.  Not  one  word  could  Egilona  draw  from 
him.  To  the  pressure  of  her  soft  arms  he  did  not  re- 
spond; nor  did  he  heed  the  kisses  she  showered  on 
him,  as,  parting  the  long  meshes  of  his  flowing  locks, 
she  strove  to  uncover  his  face. 

Around,  the  courtiers  stand  mute,  each  man  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  earth.  An  awful  silence  follows, 
broken  only  by  the  sobs  of  the  queen,  as  messenger 
after  messenger  rides  in,  distracting  the  city  with  fresh 
tales  of  woe.  So  easy  had  the  treachery  of  Julian 
made  conquest  to  the  Moors,  that  already  the  coast  of 
Andalusia  bristled  with  scimitars,  and  bands  of  turbaned 
horsemen  had  overrun  the  plains  to  the  banks  of  the 
Guadalete. 

What  were  Roderich's  thoughts  as  he  sat  motionless? 
Did  he  recall  the  prophecy  of  his  fall,  when,  contrary  to 
the  advice  of  the  archbishop,  who  implored  him  to  re- 
spect a  mystery  held  sacred  for  generations,  he  had 
forced  his  way  into  the  magic  Tower  of  Hercules, 
planted  on  the  cliffs  outside  Toledo,  and  in  spite  of  all 
warnings  broke  the  lock  of  the  enchanted  casket,  and 
unfolded  the  linen  cloths  on  which  were  painted  minia- 
ture figures  of  horsemen  wearing  turbans  and  Eastern 
tunics,  scimitars  at  their  side  and  crossbows  at  their 
saddle-bows,  carrying  pennons  and  banners  with  cres- 
cents and  Moorish  devices — all  of  which  at  first  ap- 
peared small,  as  a  pattern  to  be  folded  up,  then  grew 
and  expanded  into  the  size  of  life — squadrons  of 
Moorish  warriors  filling  the  space,  as  they  moved  up- 
wards out  of  the  cloth,  in  ever-lengthening  lines,  to  the 

0* 


84  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

faint  sound  of  distant  warlike  instruments;  becoming 
ever  larger  and  louder  as  the  enchantment  grew,  and  the 
figures  waxing  greater  to  the  far-off  clash  of  cymbals 
and  trumpets,  the  neighing  of  war-steeds  snorting  in 
the  charge,  and  shouts  as  of  the  approach  of  serried 
hosts. 

And,  as  Don  Roderich  gazed  as  one  stupefied  be- 
fore the  vision  he  had  audaciously  invoked,  plainer  and 
plainer  became  the  motion  of  the  figures,  and  wilder 
the  din,  as  the  linen  cloth  rolled  itself  higher  and 
higher  and  spread  and  amplified  out  of  the  casket, 
until  it  rose  into  the  dome  of  the  hall,  its  texture  no 
longer  visible,  but  moving  with  the  air,  the  shadowy 
figures  plainer  and  yet  plainer  in  their  fierce  war- 
fare, and  the  din  and  uproar  more  appalling  as  they 
formed  into  the  semblance  of  a  great  battle-field  where 
Christians  and  Moors  strove  with  each  other  in  deadly 
conflict;  the  rush  and  tramp  of  horses  ever  clearer,  the 
blast  of  trumpet  and  clarion  shriller  and  louder,  the 
clash  of  swords  and  maces,  the  thud  of  battle-axes 
striking  together,  the  whistle  of  ghostly  arrows  through 
the  air,  and  the  hurling  of  lances  and  darts — while 
phantom  drums  rumbled  as  by  thousands  with  the 
under-note  of  war;  two  battling  hosts  clearly  discerned, 
presenting  all  the  phases  of  a  desperate  combat.  And 
now,  behold  the  phantom  lines  of  the  Christians  quail 
before  the  infidel,  pressing  on  them  in  shadowy  thou- 
sands, the  standard  of  the  Cross  is  felled,  the  Gothic 
banner  fouled,  the  air  resounds  with  shouts,  yells  of 
fury,  and  groans  of  dying  men;  and  plain  among  the 
flying  hosts  is  seen  a  mounted  form,  bearing  the  sem- 
blance of  a  shadowy   king — a  golden   crown   encircles 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  85 

his  helmet — mounted  on  a  white  steed  with  blood- 
stained haunches,  the  satin-coated  Orelia  gallantly  bear- 
ing him  out  of  the  battle.  No  countenance  is  visible, 
for  his  back  is  turned,  but  in  the  fashion  of  the  inlaid 
armour,  the  jewelled  circlet,  the  device,  and  graceful 
lines  of  his  favourite  war-horse,  Don  Roderich,  with 
eyes  dilated  with  horror,  beholds  himself  flying  across 
the  plains!  Unseated  in  the  melee  he  disappears;  and 
Orelia,  without  a  rider,  careers  wildly  on,  as  though  in 
search  of  the  loved  master,  the  touch  of  whose  hand 
she  knows  so  well! 

Roderich,  paralysed  with  horror,  saw  no  more,  but 
rushing  from  the  magic  hall,  the  rumble  of  phantom 
drums  and  trumpets  in  his  ear,  commands  that  the 
iron  doors  of  the  Tower  of  Hercules  be  for  ever  closed. 

Such  was  the  warning,  but  he  heeded  not. 

On  July  26th,  711,  beside  the  river  Guadaletc 
(Wady  Lete),  near  Xerez,  was  fought  out  the  fate  of 
Spain.  A  dull,  dreary  region,  over  which  the  eye  now 
wanders  objectless,  save  for  a  far-off  lying  tower,  or  a 
solitary  pine  marked  against  the  horizon;  the  scent  of 
lavender  and  rosemary  strong  in  the  wind,  like  incense 
rising  up  for  the  forgotten  dead,  whose  bones  whitened 
the  plain. 

The  Moors,  under  the  command  of  Tharyk,  "the 
one-eyed,"  were  inferior  in  numbers  to  the  Goths,  but 
compacter  and  more  dexterous,  accustomed  to  constant 
warfare,  and  headed  by  experienced  leaders.  As  the 
rays  of  the  setting  sun  caught  the  wide  circle  of  the 
Moslem  Camp  the  evening  before  the  battle,  a  motley 
crowd  of  many  tribes  met  the  astonished   eyes  of  the 


86  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

Goths;  Berbers  from  North  Africa  in  white  turbans  and 
white  flying  bournous,  armed  with  lance  and  wattled 
shields;  roving  Bedouins  on  the  fleetest  steeds,  their 
glossy  coats  hung  with  beads  and  charms;  Ethiopians, 
black  as  night;  Nubians  with  matted  hair,  and  men 
from  Barbary  and  Tunis. 

On  landing  at  Tarifa,  near  the  rock  of  Gibraltar, 
Tharyk  had  burnt  every  ship.  "Behold,"  said  he, 
pointing  to  the  flames  which  ran  swiftly  along  the  wood 
of  the  light  African  triremes:  "there  is  now  no  escape 
for  cowards.  We  conquer,  or  we  die.  Your  home 
is  before  you,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  low  hne  of  in- 
land hills  which  bound  the  horizon.  As  he  spoke, 
an  ancient  woman,  covered  with  a  woollen  sheet 
gathered  about  her  naked  limbs,  drew  near  to  where 
he  was  standing  surrounded  by  his  sheiks,  waving  a 
white  rag. 

"Great  Emir,"  quoth  she,  falling  on  the  earth  to 
kiss  his  feet  in  Eastern  fashion,  "I  am  the  bearer  of  a 
prophecy  written  by  an  ancient  seer.  He  foretold  that 
the  Moors  would  overrun  our  country,  if  a  leader  should 
appear  known  by  these  signs:  On  his  right  shoulder  is 
a  mole,  and  his  right  arm  is  longer  than  his  left,  so 
that  he  can  cover  his  knee  with  one  hand  without  bend- 
ing down." 

Tharyk  listens  with  grave  attention,  then  lays  bare 
his  arms.  There  was  the  mole,  and  so  much  did  his 
right  arm  exceed  the  left  in  length,  that  he  could  clasp 
his  knee  with  his  hand. 

The  Christians  had  pitched  their  tents  at  sunset, 
somewhat  distant  from  the  Moors,  whose  black  banners, 
with  mysterious  signs,   dark  tents  and  savage  weapons 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN.  87 

inspired  them  with  awe.  Before  night,  Don  Roderich 
sent  out  a  picked  squadron  of  the  Gothic  bodyguard 
to  skirmish  with  the  enemy,  with  flags  and  standards 
bearing  the  same  device  as  those  which  had  floated 
before  Alaric  at  the  walls  of  Rome.  Each  chief,  en- 
cased in  ponderous  armour,  in  singular  contrast  to  the 
light-armed  Moors— attended  by  esquires  heavily  armed 
also,  and  bowmen  and  men-at-arms.  Old  Teodomir 
led  them,  come  from  his  government  of  Murcia,  with 
many  another  tried  Gothic  chief;  Ataulfo,  and  the  grey- 
headed Pelistes,  heading,  with  the  traditions  of  the 
earliest  times,  his  vassals  and  retainers.  With  him  was 
his  young  son,  who  had  never  borne  arms  but  in  the 
lists  of  the  tourney.  The  young  Pelayo  had  craved  to 
be  present,  to  flesh  his  maiden  sword  against  the 
enemy,  but  the  jealousy  of  Roderich,  who  hated  all 
those  of  the  old  race,  had  forbidden  it;  an  affront  that 
so  rankled  in  his  soul  that  he  swore  what  seemed  then 
a  foolish  oath,  but  which  time  ratified — to  lead  his 
countrymen  or  to  die. 

To  this  goodly  array  of  Christian  knights  the  Moors 
were  not  slow  to  correspond.  Ranks  of  fleet  horsemen 
rode  out  in  the  failing  light,  under  the  command  of 
Julian  (ever  to  the  fore  where  the  fighting  was  hottest), 
sacrificing  many  a  gallant  life  in  empty  skirmishing,  all 
by  the  advice  of  the  Archbishop  Opas,  whose  tent  lay 
near  to  Roderich,  while  he  secretly  guided  the  Moors. 

Old  Tharyk,  astonished  by  this  prompt  display  of 
the  valour  of  the  Goths,  and  their  devotion  to  their 
king,  sought  out  Julian,  sternly  remonstrating, — 

"You  told  me  your  countrymen  were  sunk  in  sloth 
and  effeminacy  under  a  dastard  king.     But  behold,   I 


88  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

see  their  tents  whitening  the  plains  and  his  army  to  be 
reckoned  by  thousands  upon  thousands  of  good  fighting 
men.  Woe  unto  you,  O  Christian  knight,  if,  to  work 
out  your  own  vengeance,  you  have  lured  me  with  false 
words." 

Julian,  greatly  troubled,  retired  to  his  tent,  and 
called  to  him  his  page,  the  same  who  had  brought  him 
the  letter  of  Florinda  from  Toledo. 

"My  pretty  boy,"  he  said,  passing  his  arm  about 
his  neck,  "you  know  that  I  love  you  almost  as  a  son. 
Now  is  the  time  to  serve  me.  Hie  to  the  Christian 
camp,  and  find  the  tent  of  my  kinsman,  Archbishop 
Opas.  Show  him  this  ring,  and  tell  him  Julian  greets 
him  and  demands  how  Florinda  can  be  avenged.  Mark 
well  his  answer.  Repeat  it  word  by  word.  Carry  close 
lips  and  open  eyes  in  the  enemy's  camp.  If  challenged, 
say  you  are  one  of  the  household  of  the  archbishop, 
bearing  missives  from  Cordoba.  So  speed  you  well, 
my  boy.     Away,  away,  away." 

Along  the  margin  of  the  Guadalete  he  rode,  the 
soft  turf  giving  back  no  sound.  A  sword  girded  to  his 
saddle-bow,  a  dagger  in  his  belt,  mounted  on  a  steed  as 
fleet  as  air,  and  black  in  colour  as  the  night. 

Brightly  gleamed  the  Christian  fires  around  their 
camp,  but  sadly  to  his  ear  came  the  plaints  of  the 
soldiers  wounded  in  the  skirmish,  who  had  crawled  to 
the  river  bank  to  slake  their  thirst.  Then  with  a  groan, 
a  dying  Moor,  doomed  to  expire  alone  under  an  alien 
sky,  called  on  him  to  stay,  and  his  trusty  horse  stumbled, 
and  nearly  fell,  over  the  prostrate  body  of  a  dead  knight 
lately  prancing  proudly  under  the  sun.  The  heart  of 
the  page  faltered.     Fain  would  he  have  stayed,  for  he 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  89 

had  served  in  courts,  and  was  of  a  gentle  nature,  but 
never  for  a  moment  did  he  tarry  on  his  course,  or  let 
compassion  tempt  him  to  help  such  as  called  on  him 
for  aid.  His  master's  word  was  law,  and  he  had  said 
"Haste  thee  on  thy  way  for  life  and  death." 

Challenged  by  the  Christian  sentinels,  he  spoke  the 
words  Julian  had  taught  him,  and  passed  through  to 
the  tent  of  the  archbishop. 

Opas,  as  one  of  those  militant  churchmen  so  com- 
mon in  that  age,  having  doffed  his  suit  of  mail,  was 
resting  after  the  fight.  When  his  own  brother  had 
fallen,  without  remorse  he  turned  lo  Roderich.  Now 
Roderich  in  his  turn  was  betrayed  and  he  bethought 
himself  of  his  kinsfolk. 

A  stern,  high-featured  man,  with  a  ready  smile,  like 
winter  sunshine  upon  snow.  Merciless  and  hypocritical 
he  had  steered  his  way  through  two  stormy  reigns,  and 
was  now  believed  by  Roderich  to  be  as  devoted  to  his 
cause  as  he  had  seemed  to  be  to  the  unhappy  Witica. 
When  he  saw  the  ring  his  brother-in-law  had  sent  him, 
he  made  no  reply.  For  awhile  he  contemplated  the 
page  curiously,  slowly  passing  his  jewelled  fingers  over 
his  clean-shaven  chin,  lost  in  thought;  then  he  broke 
silence, — 

"Doubtless,"  said  the  hypocrite,  "the  message  is 
from  God.  Your  master  Julian  is  but  the  mouth- 
piece of  the  Most  High.  Since  the  divine  voice  has 
spoken,  and,  given  us  time  to  consider  its  judgment,  it 
behoves  me,  his  servant  in  all  things,  to  accomplish  his 
will.  Hasten  back  to  your  lord,  good  page,  and  tell 
him  to  have  faith  in  his  wife's  brother.  As  yet  my 
own  troops  have  not  unsheathed  the  sword,  but  are 


go  OLD    COURT   LIFE  IN   SPAIN. 

fresh  and  ready.  At  the  hour  of  noon  to-morrow,  when 
both  armies  are  engaged,  let  him  look  out;  I  will  pass 
over  to  the  Moslem." 

With  this  treacherous  message  the  page  departed, 
making  no  noise,  and  as  he  guides  his  black  horse 
along  the  lines  of  the  river  as  he  had  come,  the  sound 
of  an  arrow  whistled  by  his  ear,  a  random  shot  which 
did  not  harm  him. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

BATTLE    OF    GUADALETE. OVERIHROW    OF    DON    RODERICK. 

All  night  a  light  burned  in  the  tent  of  Don  Roderich. 
If  he  slept,  his  slumbers  were  troubled.  Now  the  pale 
form  of  Florinda  rose  before  him  with  sad  eyes,  then  the 
hideous  vision  of  the  necromantic  Tower  of  Hercules 
haunts  him.  He  starts  up,  and,  opening  the  purple 
hangings  of  his  tent,  gazes  out  at  the  starry  splendour 
of  the  southern  night. 

Before  him  lay  the  grassy  flats  about  Xerez,  dimly 
lit  by  the  dark  glow  of  the  signal  fires  marking  the 
verge  of  the  opposite  camps.  A  pale  crescent  moon 
hanging  over  the  Moslem  tents  brought  out  the  lines  of 
low  hills  far  back  on  the  horizon.  Not  a  sound  was 
heard  but  the  tramp  of  the  sentinels,  or  the  neigh  of  a 
war-horse,  ill-stabled  on  the  turf  The  distant  click  of 
a  horse's  hoofs  roused  him  to  attention,  and  he  distinctly 
saw  the  shadowy  outline  of  a  single  horseman  hurrying 
along  the  river's  verge,  the  bearer  of  the  message  big 
with  his  doom. 

From  his  belt  he  drew  an  arrow  and  sped  it  swiftly 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  Q'I 

from  a  golden  bow,  watching  its  silent  course,  but  the 
dark  figure  still  rode  on. 

Heavy  was  his  heart  within  him  as  he  watched  the 
dawn  of  day  (say  the-  old  chroniclers),  not  for  himself, 
but  for  the  thousands  who  lay  stretched  in  slumber 
around,  and  the  thought  of  the  lonely  Egilona  called 
from  him  a  sigh.  Of  all  things  to  a  brave  heart 
treachery  is  the  sorest  woe,  and  treachery  he  knew  was 
at  work  with  Julian  close  at  hand.  He  would  have 
challenged  him  to  single  battle,  as  knight  to  knight,  but 
for  the  memory  of  his  crime.  This  made  him  shrink 
before  the  father  whose  just  vengeance  had  brought  the 
invaders  into  the  land. 

With  the  glorious  burst  of  morning  all  these  dismal 
thoughts  vanished.  Again  he  became  the  brilliant  chief 
who  had  wrested  from  Witica  the  crown  of  Spain. 
Again  his  heart  swelled  with  the  ardour  of  battle,  as  he 
prepared  to  lead  his  army  with  the  pomp  proper  to  a 
Gothic  king. 

A  comelier  monarch  never  drew  breath  than  Roderich 
as — attired  in  a  robe  of  beaten  gold,  sandals  embroidered 
in  pearls  and  diamonds  on  his  feet,  a  sceptre  in  his 
hand,  and  a  gold  crown  on  his  head  resplendent  with 
priceless  gems — he  mounted  the  lofty  chariot  of  ivory, 
drawn  by  milk-white  horses  champing  bits  of  gold,  the 
wheels  and  pole  covered  with  plates  of  gold,  and  a 
crimson  canopy  overhead.  As  he  advanced  in  front  of 
the  army  shouts  of  delight  rent  the  air. 

"Forward,  brave  Goths,"  he  cried,  waving  his  glittering 
sceptre,  as  he  halted  in  the  front  of  the  royal  standard. 
"God  is  above  to  bless  the  Christian  cause!    Your  king 


92  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

leads  you!  Forward  to  the  fight,  and  death  be  his 
portion  who  shows  any  fear!" 

Ere  his  voice  had  ceased,  the  sun,  which  had  risen 
brilliantly,  sank  behind  a  bank  of  vapour,  and  a  rising 
sirocco  raised  such  clouds  of  dust  that  the  very  air  was 
darkened. 

Various  was  the  fortune  of  the  day.  To  the  bat- 
talions of  light  Arab  horsemen,  throwing  showers  of 
arrows,  stones,  and  javelins,  the  old  Gothic  valour  op- 
posed lines  of  steady  troops.  Where  the  Moslem  fell, 
the  Christian  rushed  in,  seized  both  horse  and  armour. 
Desperately  they  fought  and  well,  until  the  plain  was 
strewn  with  prostrate  Moors. 

Don  Roderich,  throwing  off  the  cumbrous  robes  of 
state,  and  mounting  his  satin-coated  steed,  Orelia,  a 
horned  helmet  on  his  head,  sternly  grasping  his  buckler, 
was  foremost  wherever  danger  menaced.  With  the  reins 
loose  upon  Orelia's  neck  (who  utters  a  wild  snort  rushing 
forward  at  full  speed  to  meet  the  charge)  the  Moors  fly 
before  him,  as  though  he  were  a  second  Santiago 
decended  from  the  skies. 

Tharyk  the  one-eyed,  maddened  at  seeing  his  bat- 
talions retreating,  flung  himelf  before  them,  and,  rising 
in  his  stirrups,  strove  to  stem  the  tide. 

"Oh,  Mussulmen,"  he  shouted,  "whither  would  you 
fly?  The  sea  is  behind  you,  the  enemy  in  front.  You 
have  no  hope  but  in  valour.  Follow  me;  aim  at  the 
leaders.  Pick  off  the  Christian  knights.  He  who  brings 
in  the  head  of  the  Goth  shall  swim  in  gold."  And 
putting  spurs  to  his  charger,  he  laid  about  him  to  right 
and  left,  trampling  down  the  foot  soldiers,  followed  by 
Tenedos,   a   Spanish   renegade,   and   a  whole  company 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  93 

of  savage  Berbers,  who  fell  upon  Ataulfo  and  the  men 
he  led. 

A  hand-to-hand  conflict  ensued.  Ataulfo  was  wounded 
while  he  struggled  with  Tenedos,  whom  he  had  felled 
to  the  earth  with  his  battle-axe,  but  his  good  horse 
being  disabled  and  useless,  obliged  him  to  dismount. 
He  tried  to  seize  the  reins  of  that  of  Tenedos,  but  the 
sagacious  animal,  as  if  recognising  the  hand  which  had 
smitten  his  master,  reared  and  plunged,  and  would  not 
let  him  mount.  On  foot  he  repulsed  a  whole  circle  of 
assailants.  Blow  after  blow  he  dealt  upon  the  enemy, 
keeping  back  the  fierce  crew  of  turbaned  Berbers  that 
sought  to  strike  him  down. 

"All  honour  to  Christian  chivalry,"  cried  Tharyk, 
who,  seing  the  quick  gleam  of  swords  and  scimitars 
around  the  Gothic  prince,  spurred  to  the  spot.  But  a 
selfish  thought  came  to  crush  the  generous  impulse 
which  had  moved  him  for  a  moment. 

"If  Ataulfo  falls,  it  will  be  death  to  the  army  of 
Roderich,"  whereupon  he  dealt  him  such  a  cruel  blow 
with  his  scimitar  as  felled  him  to  the  earth.  A  pool  of 
blood  formed  round  him.  Then  the  Moor,  for  an  instant 
separated  from  him  by  a  squadron  of  horse,  led  by 
Pelistes,  hastens  to  deal  him  the  death-blow. 

No  Goth  possessed  the  moral  influence  of  Pelistes. 
He  was  the  high  priest  of  chivalry.  With  him  rode  his 
only  son.  In  vain  he  warned  him  not  to  expose  him- 
self In  vain!  The  die  was  cast — he  fell!  His  maiden 
battle  was  doomed  to  be  his  last!  Alas!  poor  father! 
Borne  on  the  shields  of  his  vassals,  they  carry  the  boy 
towards  the  royal  tent,  where  Roderich  was  leading  his 


94  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

Gothic  guards  forward  to  terminate  the  battle  by  a 
victorious  onslaught. 

At  this  moment,  when  the  sun,  long  obscured  by- 
clouds,  reached  the  meridian,  and  shone  forth  in 
sudden  lustre,  a  deafening  shout  is  heard,  and  Arch- 
bishop Opas,  in  a  complete  suit  of  armour,  strikes  out 
from  the  centre  of  the  Christian  army  at  a  gallop  to  join 
the  Moors. 

From  that  moment  the  fortune  of  battle  changes. 
In  vain  did  Pelistes,  forgetting  his  grief,  lead  on  such 
as  would  follow  him.  For  the  first  time  his  voice  fell 
on  deaf  ears.  In  vain  Teodomir  endeavours  to  rally 
his  veterans.  In  vain  Roderich,  on  his  war-horse,  grasps 
sword  and  buckler,  to  reform  his  flying  troops.  Sur- 
rounded and  assailed  by  his  own  treacherous  subjects, 
his  sword  flew  like  lightning  round  his  horned  casque, 
each  stroke  felling  an  enemy.  Around  him  the  fight 
thickens.  "A  kingdom  for  his  head,"  cries  the  voice 
of  Julian,  pressing  closer  and  closer  with  his  perjured 
band. 

A  mortal  panic  falls  on  the  Christians.  Not  only 
do  they  not  fight,  but  they  throw  away  their  arms 
and  fly! 

For  three  whole  days  the  Bedouins  and  Berbers, 
the  fleetest  riders  among  the  Africans,  pursue  the  flying 
Goths  over  the  plains.  But  few  of  that  vast  host  live 
to  tell  the  tale.  Alone,  with  a  compact  body  of  men, 
Teodomir  managed  to  escape  into  the  East,  and  Pelistes, 
carrying  the  body  of  his  son,  shuts  himself  up  behind 
the  walls  of  Cordoba. 

And  Roderich? 

The  Christian  chronicler  who  furnishes  these  details 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  95 

records  that  the  king  fell  by  the  sword  of  Julian,  but 
this  is  too  much  of  a  monkish  moralitiy  to  be  true.  It 
is  said  that  Orelia,  stained  with  blood  and  disabled, 
was  found  entangled  in  a  marsh  on  the  borders  of  the 
Guadalete,  the  sandals  and  mantle  of  her  master  be- 
side her. 

But  where  history  is  silent  romancers  take  up  the 
tale,  in  those  same  ballads,  parodied  by  Cervantes,  in 
the  inimitable  scene  of  the  puppets,  in  the  second  part 
of  Don  Quixote,  when  Master  Peter,  representing  Rode- 
rich's  tragic  death,  grows  alarmed  at  the  Don's  frantic 
wrath,  and  his  drawn  sword,  and  cries,  "Hold!  hold! 
These  are  no  real  Berbers  and  Moors,  but  harmless 
dolls  of  pasteboard,  picturing  unhappy  King  Roderich, 
who  said,  'Yesterday  I  was  lord  of  Spain,  and  to-day  I 
have  not  a  foot  of  land  which  I  can  call  my  own.  Not 
half  an  hour  ago  I  had  knights  and  empire  at  my  com- 
mand, horses  in  abundance,  and  chests  and  bags  of 
gold,  but  now  you  see  me  a  ruined  and  undone 
man ! ' " 

Roderich,  say  the  ballads,  did  not  perish  in  the 
battle  of  the  Guadalete,  but  seeing  that  the  day  was 
lost,  he  fled.  But  not  far,  for  the  sleek-skinned  Orelia 
bleeding  with  wounds  to  death,  soon  fell.  Then  the 
king  wandered  on  on  foot,  faint  and  sick,  his  sword 
hacked  into  a  saw,  his  jewelled  mail  drilled  through. 
On  the  top  of  the  highest  rock  (that  is  not  much,  for 
we  are  in  the  eternal  plains)  he  sits  down  and  weeps. 
Wherever  he  turns  the  sight  of  death  meets  his  gaze. 
His  valiant  Goths  have  fallen  or  have  fled.  No  refuge 
is  left  in  the  walled  cities,  or  by  the  seashore.  Toledo, 
his  capital,  is  far  away,  and  who  knows  if  his  banner 


96  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

still  floats  from  the  Alcazar  towers?  Below  is  the  battle- 
field stained  with  Christian  blood.  There  his  royal 
banner  trails  in  the  dust.  The  bodies  of  his  dying 
troops  cover  the  plain.  The  shrill  cry  of  the  Arab 
comes  sharply  to  his  ear.  He  can  discern  the  form  of 
Julian,  sword  in  hand,  dealing  destruction  to  such  as 
still  linger,  and  Tharyk,  on  his  Arab  courser,  white- 
turbaned,  more  terrible  than  the  phantoms  of  the  black 
kings  who  haunt  the  desert! 

Just,  however,  as  Roderich,  in  despair,  is  about  to 
kill  himself  (so  the  ballad  says)  a  shepherd  appears,  who 
gives  him  food,  and  conducts  him  to  a  neighbouring 
hermit.  The  hermit,  on  learning  who  he  is,  regards  him 
somewhat  dubiously,  exhorts  him  to  pray,  and  purify 
himself  from  sin.  As  to  hospitality  he  can  only  offer 
him  an  open  grave,  into  which  Roderich  descends  with- 
out a  murmur,  in  company  with  a  big  black  snake.  If 
his  repentance  be  sincere,  the  hermit  tells  him,  the 
snake  will  leave  him  harmless;  if  not,  it  will  bite  him 
until  he  dies. 

In  the  grave  the  king  lies  silent  for  three  days. 
Then  the  hermit  appears,  and  asks:  "How  fares  it,  most 
noble  king?  How  do  you  relish  your  dark  bed  and 
dismal  bedfellow?" 

"The  snake,"  answered  Roderich,  "is  black,  and 
rears  its  crest,  but  it  does  not  bite  me.  Pray  for  me, 
good  father,  that  I  may  be  unharmed." 

But  that  very  afternoon,  sore  and  doleful  moans 
smite  the  hermit's  ear.  It  is  Roderich  from  the  grave, 
crying,  "Father,  father,  the  snake  gnaws  me.  Now, 
now  I  feel  his  pointed  teeth.  Oh  God,  will  it  soon 
end?" 


OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  97 

At  which  the  hermit,  gazing  down,  exhorts  him  to 
bear  the  pain,  "to  save  his  sinful  soul,"  in  the  true  style 
of  monkish  consolation. 

And  thus  poor  Roderich  dies  a  miserable  death, 
verifying  what  Sancho  Panza  says  to  the  duchess,  "that 
all  the  silks  and  riches  of  the  Goths  did  not  prevent 
his  being  cut  off,"  and  the  traitor  and  renegade,  Julian, 
helps  the  Moors  to  possess  Xerez,  and  the  plain  from 
Seville  to  the  rock  of  Gibraltar,  called  Gebel  Thdryk 
(hill  of  Tharyk),  which  they  kept  for  many  centuries, 
until  driven  out  by  Alonso,  the  wise  King  of  Leon  and 
Castile. 


CHAPTER    Vn. 

CORDOBA. PELISTES. — DON  JULIAN. FLORINDA. 

Again  we  are  at  Cordoba!  Under  the  protection 
of  its  river-girt  walls  the  flying  Goths  draw  breath. 
From  Cordoba  the  king  had  started  his  great  army, 
spreading  like  waves  over  the  Andalusian  plains.  To 
Cordoba,  Pelistes  and  a  few  terrified  fugitives  return, 
bringing  tidings  of  the  catastrophe. 

The  men  of  Cordoba  crowd  round  them  with  terror 
in  their  looks.  Pelistes  shakes  his  aged  head,  tears 
gather  in  his  eyes. 

"Roderich  is  fallen,"  they  cry.  "Your  silence  reveals 
it.  Be  to  us  a  king,  O  Pelistes,  and  defend  us  from  the 
Moors." 

He  Hstens  in  silence.  He  neither  refuses  the  offer, 
nor  gives  consent.  His  heart  is  dead  within  him.  Then 
he  lifts  his  eyes  to  the  green  mountains  of  the  Sierra 
Morena,  which  give  so  pleasant  an  aspect  to  the  great 

Old  Court  Li/e  in  Spain.  /.  7 


gS  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

Plaza  where  he  stands,  and  the  long-suppressed  tears 
well  over  and  run  down  his  furrowed  cheeks,  at  the 
thought  that  these  fair  lands  and  the  white  city,  so 
jocund  in  the  sun,  with  avenues  of  spreading  palms,  and 
plane  trees,  and  jasmine-planted  gardens,  shall  fall. 

"Citizens,"  he  says,  turning  to  the  hundreds  whose 
eager  eyes  are  fixed  on  him  as  shipwrecked  mariners 
note  the  advance  of  a  raft  in  a  stormy  sea,  "I  swear  to 
stand  by  you  to  the  end.  I  will  undertake  the  defence 
of  your  city." 

A  solemn  oath  is  registered  there  on  the  Plaza  (still 
planted  with  palms  and  called  now  " del  gran  Capitan," 
in  memory  of  another  great  leader,  Gonzalo  de  Cordoba), 
a  solemn  oath,  and  as  a  sign  of  accepting  all  held  up 
their  right  hands. 

But,  shameful  to  relate,  so  soon  as  the  scouts  bring 
word  of  the  advance  of  the  victorious  Moors,  every 
wealthy  burgher  within  Cordoba  packs  up  his  goods 
and  flies  to  the  deepest  recesses  of  the  Sierra.  The 
monks  abandon  their  convents,  the  women  follow,  and 
only  the  poor  and  destitute  are  left  to  the  mercy  of  the 
invaders. 

To  the  sound  of  drums  and  cymbals  the  Moors 
march  in.  In  front  rides  the  Christian  renegade,  Maguel, 
his  turbaned  head  decorated  with  the  crescent  of  com- 
mand, his  war-horse  carrying  strings  of  Christian  heads, 
dropping  blood  upon  the  stones.  Next  is  Julian,  a  dark 
scowl  upon  his  face,  as  of  a  man  carrying  a  load  of 
care.  How  well  he  knows  each  tree  and  huerta  and 
tower  along  the  march — the  little  creek  in  the  Guadal- 
quivir, where  the  boats  are  moored;  a  lone  castle  of 
defence,    looking    towards    the    hills    (now    called    "of 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  ^9 

Almodar"),  he  often  has  defended  against  the  wild 
forays  of  the  Arabs;  the  Sierra  broken  into  diffs  and 
precipices,  with  groves  and  gardens,  and  silvery  streams, 
studded  by  quintas  and  hamlets.  There,  in  a  green 
retreat  among  the  wooded  hills,  he  and  Frandina  had 
lived  when  Florinda  was  a  child.  Here,  in  the  Alcazar, 
he  had  met  Don  Roderich;  and  the  remembrance  fills 
him  with  such  sudden  rage,  he  digs  his  spurs  into  the 
smooth  flanks  of  his  Arab  charger,  an  uncalled-for 
violence  which  the  fiery  animal  resenting,  rears,  and 
half  unseats  him. 

Yes,  it  was  at  Cordoba  that  he  consigned  Florinda 
to  his  care,  the  fair- faced  profligate.  There  he  parted 
from  her,  guileless  as  a  babe,  and  now,  through  the 
length  and  breadth  of  Spain,  she  is  known  by  the  name 
of  "La  Cava."  He  himself  is  but  a  vile  renegade.  Al- 
ready the  poison  of  jealousy  is  working  at  his  heart. 
The  Moors  distrust  him,  though  they  owe  all  to  him. 
Where  would  the  one-eyed  have  been  but  for  him? 
And  Mousa,  and  Maguel,  and  the  rest?  And  such  an 
uncontrollable  burst  of  wrath  passes  over  him,  that  he 
curses  aloud.  At  least  he  was  the  first  in  the  court  of 
Roderich,  and  now,  who  knows,  when  Andalusia  is  con- 
quered and  the  Moors  need  him  no  more,  what  form 
their  suspicion  may  assume? 

Then  came  to  his  mind  uneasy  thoughts  of  Frandina 
and  of  his  son.  For  himself  he  cares  not.  A  dagger 
thrust  can  settle  all  his  fate — but  the  boy!  his  only  son! 
Is  he  safe  under  his  mother's  care?  May  he  not  be 
made  a  hostage  by  Tharyk? 

Already  the  scent  of  treason  is  in  the  air! 

Here  a  wild  clamour  breaks  in  upon  his  thoughts. 

7* 


lOO  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

The  white  walls  of  Cordoba  are  in  front,  and  a  mighty 
shout  of  "Allah!  there  is  no  God  but  Allah,  and 
Mahomet  is  his  Prophet,"  rises  from  a  thousand  throats 
of  swarthy  Africans,  careering  wildly  over  the  grass, 
Numidians,  with  fringed  bands  and  armlets  on  elbow 
and  ankle,  sun-dried  sheikhs  and  wandering  Kalenders 
and  Fakirs  in  the  front  of  the  great  army,  mounted  on 
camels  and  mules. 


For  three  long  months  Pelistes,  well -named  the 
"Father  of  the  Goths,"  defended  the  battered  Convent 
of  St.  George,  within  which  he  barricaded  himself. 
Hope  of  succour  supports  his  courage.  Teodomir  may 
come,  or  young  Pelayo,  from  Asturia  or  Leon. 

But  day  follows  day,  and  night  passes  on  to  night, 
under  the  lustre  of  the  southern  stars,  and  no  help 
comes.  Eager  eyes  hail  every  cloud  of  dust  that  sweeps 
the  plain,  and  interpret  dark  shadows  of  the  clouds 
which  summer  tempests  cast,  into  troops  of  Christian 
knights  approaching.  Alas!  no  human  form  is  visible, 
save  now  and  then  an  Arab  horseman,  riding  with  light 
rein,  charged  with  some  mission  from  Mousa  in  the 
south. 

Famine,  too,  comes  to  try  them  with  its  ghastly  face. 
One  by  one  they  kill  the  horses,  which  had  carried 
them  so  gallantly  from  the  Guadalete  (to  a  trooper  an 
act  as  repulsive  as  the  murdering  of  his  child),  and 
strive  with  divers  ills  which  hunger  brings. 

Pelistes,  unable  to  bear  the  sight  of  the  sufferings 
of  his  friends,  assembles  what  remains  of  the  miserable 
garrison,  and  thus  speaks  his  mind, — 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  lOI 

"Comrades,"  he  cries,  in  a  voice  which  he  en- 
deavours to  make  cheerful,  "it  is  needless  to  conceal 
danger  from  brave  men;  our  case  is  desperate.  One 
by  one  we  shall  die  and  leave  no  sign.  There  is  but 
one  chance,  and  I  shall  brave  it.  To-morrow,  before 
break  of  day,  I  will  ride  forth  disguised  as  one  of  these 
base  renegades  of  whom  there  are  so  many  in  Cordoba, 
and,  God  willing,  spur  on  to  Toledo.  If  my  errand 
prosper,  I  will  be  back  in  twenty  days.  If  not,  at  least 
I  shall  return  to  die  with  you.  Keep  a  sharp  look  out! 
Five  beacon  fires  blazing  on  the  lowest  line  of  hills 
mean  success.  If  not,  the  blackness  of  despair  en- 
gulphs  me." 

And  so  it  was.  As  the  faint  streaks  of  light  tipped 
the  craggy  tops  of  the  Sierra  with  points  of  gold,  warn- 
ing the  shepherds  to  rise  and  tend  their  sheep,  and  the 
birds  flew  low,  waiting  for  further  light  to  wing  their 
course  into  the  upper  regions  of  the  air,  Pelistes  rode 
forth,  a  turban  on  his  head,  along  the  silent  streets  of 
Cordoba,  to  which  the  shadows  of  long  lines  of  wall 
give  such  an  Eastern  aspect.  He  passes  the  gate,  but 
lazily  guarded  at  that  early  hour,  unchallenged,  in  com- 
pany with  droves  of  cattle  and  mules  laden  with  sacks. 
Then,  pricking  the  sides  of  his  willing  horse,  he  gallops 
at  full  speed  along  the  tracks  which  mount  upwards, 
and,  ere  the  sun  rose,  had  gained  the  lower  spurs  of 
the  Sierra. 

At  the  gateway  of  a  quinta  he  draws  rein,  willing 
to  rest  his  panting  steed.  But  alas!  while  he  tarries 
the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs,  riding  at  topmost  speed  over 
the  rocky  path  he  had  just  traversed,  smites  his  ear. 
In  an  instant  he  is  again  in  the  saddle,  and  straining 


I02  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAI^. 

Upwards  to  conceal  himself  in  a  rugged  hollow  beside 
the  dried-up  course  of  a  mountain  torrent. 

His  tired  horse,  wind-blown  and  trembling,  falters 
at  the  edge  and  falls,  rolling  with  Pehstes  to  the  bottom. 
Greatly  shaken  and  bleeding,  Pelistes  extricates  himself 
with  difficulty  and  strives  to  raise  his  horse,  but  when 
the  generous  beast,  rising  with  a  groan  to  his  master's 
call,  stands  up,  it  falls  again  on  the  hard  stones  unable 
to  keep  its  feet. 

Meanwhile,  on  comes  the  horseman  through  the 
falling  stones  and  a  face  he  knows  too  well  looks  over 
the  brink  of  the  ravine,  and  a  voice  calls  out,  "Well 
met,  brave  Pelistes,  even  in  a  hole.  You  have  ridden 
bravely  from  Cordoba,  and  are  well  mounted.  We  fol- 
lowed you  ill,  but  here  we  are  in  time." 

The  voice  is  that  of  Maguel.  For  all  reply,  Pelistes, 
standing  by  his  horse,  draws  his  sword. 

"Do  you  bandy  words  with  me  as  a  coward!"  he 
thunders,  brandishing  his  weapon.  "Stand  forth!  If 
you  are  a  man,  tie  your  horse  to  a  tree  and  come  down 
on  foot.  We  will  see  who  is  the  better  man,  a  Christian 
renegade  or  a  Gothic  knight." 

And  fight  they  did,  and  desperately,  as  if  each  held 
a  nation's  ransom  at  his  sword's  point.  Better  matched 
warriors  never  clashed  steel.  Fragments  of  shields  flew 
around;  then  casques  were  split,  and  blood  flowed 
freely.  Still  they  fought.  At  length  Pelistes,  who  had 
been  much  injured  by  his  fall,  begins  to  show  signs  of 
weakness,  which  Maguel  perceiving,  presses  on  him  the 
more,  until  Pelistes,  summoning  all  his  remaining 
strength  to  strike  a  final  blow,  fails  in  his  aim  and  falls 
prostrate  on  the  earth. 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  IO3 

"This  is  a  brave  foe,"  quoth  Magiiel  to  his  followers, 
who,  renegade  though  he  was,  we  must  allow  had 
generous  qualities  or  he  would  have  run  Pelistes  through. 
"Let  us  save  his  life,  such  a  knight  will  honour  our 
triumph."  So,  unlacing  his  buckler,  they  throw  water 
on  his  face,  and  raise  him  upright  against  a  barrier  of 
rock. 

Though  plunged  in  a  deep  swoon,  Pelistes  lives,  and 
strapped  to  a  stout  palfrey  reaches  Cordoba. 

When  the  imprisoned  captives,  straining  their  eyes 
for  any  sign,  see  him  surrounded  by  dusky  Africans,  to 
their  eyes  a  bleeding  corpse,  their  very  souls  seem  dead 
within  them.  Pelistes  gone,  no  help  can  come.  To  sell 
their  Uves  dear,  they  sally  forth,  but  are  soon  driven 
back  into  the  convent,  each  noble  Goth  dying  sword  in 
hand.  The  convent  is  immediately  occupied  by  the 
Moors,  and  from  that  time  is  known  as  "St.  George  of 
the  Captives." 

Meanwhile,  Pelistes  found  friends  among  his  foes. 
Slowly  his  wounds  healed,  and  until  he  was  restored  to 
health  the  Arabs  carefully  tended  him.  At  length, 
when  he  was  able  to  walk,  Maguel  (who  frankly  gloried 
in  his  apostacy)  bid  him  to  a  banquet  within  the 
Alcazar.  It  was  a  sore  trial  to  the  feelings  of  the  old 
warrior,  but  they  were  generous  foes.  As  a  prisoner, 
he  could  not  refuse  the  hospitality  of  his  hosts,  but  the 
woes  of  his  country  lay  heavy  at  his  heart.  The  grass 
was  still  green  over  the  graves  of  his  comrades,  and  to 
his  fancy  the  weapons  of  the  Moors  were  crimsoned  with 
their  blood. 


104  ^^^   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

Pelistes  occupied  the  seat  of  honour  on  the  right 
hand  of  Maguel,  and  with  that  exquisite  courtesy,  for 
which  the  Moors  were  famous,  his  host  turned  the  talk 
on  the  valour  displayed  by  the  Christians,  and  extolled 
their  gallant  defence  of  Cordoba,  specially  remember- 
ing that  devoted  little  band  who  had  perished  in  the 
convent. 

"Could  I  have  saved  their  lives,"  added  Maguel,  "it 
would  have  done  me  honour.  Such  enemies  ennoble 
victory.  Had  those  brave  knights  consented  to  surrender 
when  I  sent  in  a  flag  of  truce  I  should  have  cherished 
them  as  brothers." 

Pelistes  silently  acknowledged  the  enlightened  chivalry 
of  these  words,  but  his  heart  smote  him  so  sorely  that 
he  could  not  speak  for  some  moments.  But  for  his 
final  charge  to  them  "not  to  surrender"  they  might  be 
with  him  now!     At  length  words  came  to  him. 

"Happy  are  the  dead,"  was  his  reply,  in  a  voice 
that  vibrated  with  emotion.  "They  rest  in  peace  after 
the  hard-fought  struggle.  My  companions  in  arms  have 
fallen  with  honour,  while  I  live  to  see  fair  Spain  the 
prey  of  strangers.  My  son  is  dead,  cut  down  by  my 
side  in  battle.  My  friends  are  gone,  I  have  reason  to 
weep  for  them.  But  one  there  is" — and  he  raised  his 
voice  and  a  dark  fire  came  into  his  pale  eye — "one  for 
whom  I  shall  never  cease  to  mourn;  of  all  my  brothers 
in  arms  he  was  the  dearest.  Of  all  the  Gothic  knights 
he  was  the  bravest.  Alas!  where  is  he?  I  know  not. 
There  is  no  record  of  his  death  in  battle,  or  I  would 
seek  for  him  in  the  waters  of  the  Guadalete,  or  on  the 
plains  of  Xerez;  or  if,  Hke  so  many  others,  he  is 
doomed  to  slavery  in  a  foreign  land,  I  would  join  him 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  IO5 

in   exile,   and   we   would   mourn   our  country*s  loss  to- 
gether." 

So  pathetic  was  the  tone  of  Pelistes,  so  thrilling,  that 
Maguel  and  the  Emirs  who  sat  round  asked  anxiously, 
"Who  is  he?" 

"His  name,"  answered  Pelistes,  with  lowered  voice, 
glancing  round  the  table  as  he  spoke,  "was  Don  Julian, 
Conde  Espatorios  of  Spain." 

"How,"  cried  Maguel,  "my  honoured  guest,  are  you 
smitten    with    sudden   blindness?     Behold   your   friend. 
Do  you  not  see  him?     He  is  seated  there,"  pointing  to. 
Julian,  at  some  distance  down  the  board,  attired  in  the 
turban  and  long  embroidered  caftan  of  a  Moor. 

Pelistes  paused,  slowly  raised  his  eyes,  then  sternly 
fixed  them  on  Julian.  "In  the  name  of  God,  stranger, 
answer  me,"  he  said,  "how  dare  you  presume  to  per- 
sonate the  Conde  Espatorios?" 

Stung  to  the  quick,  JuHan  rose,  flinging  a  furious 
glance  on  the  calm,  cold  eyes  riveted  upon  him.  "Pelistes," 
he  cried,  "what  means  this  mockery?  You  know  me 
well.     I  am  Julian." 

"I  know  you  for  a  base  apostate,"  thundered 
Pelistes,  the  great  wrath  within  him  finding  sudden  vent, 
"an  apostate  and  a  traitor.  Julian,  my  friend,  was  a 
Christian  knight,  devoted,  true  and  valiant,  hntyou,  you 
have  no  name.  Infidel,  renegade,  and  traitor,  the  earth 
you  tread  abhors  you.  The  men  you  lead  curse  you, 
for  you  have  betrayed  Spain  and  your  king.  There- 
fore, I  repeat,  O  man  unknown,  if  you  declare  you  are 
Don  Julian,  you  lie.  He,  alas!  is  dead,  and  you  are 
some  fiend  from  hell  who  wears  his  semblance.  No 
longer  can  I  brook  the  sight." 


I06  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

So,  rising  from  the  table,  Pelistes  departed,  turning 
his  back  on  Julian,  overwhelmed  with  confusion,  amid  the 
scornful  smiles  of  the  Moslem  knights,  who  used  while 
they  despised  him. 

As  yet,  however,  all  had  gone  well  with  him.  If  a 
traitor,  his  treason  was  successful.  He  held  high  com- 
mand among  the  Arabs  under  Tharyk  and  Mousa,  and 
amassed  great  wealth  by  his  country's  spoil,  but  he 
loathed  himself  more  and  more.  He  knew  that  all  men 
despised  him.  Too  old  and  too  serious  for  the  sensual 
life  of  the  Moors,  and  as  a  warrior  little  caring  to  be 
delicately  fed  and  housed,  he  sought  solace  in  the  com- 
pany of  his  masculine  but  faithful  wife,  Florinda  and  his 
little  son. 

Florinda,  alas!  how  changed!  Her  sweet,  soft 
eyes  were  wild.  The  delicate  bloom  upon  her  cheek 
had  deepened  into  a  fixed  red;  her  mouth,  made  for 
kisses,  lined  and  hard,  her  whole  face  strangely  hag- 
gard. No  words  can  paint  the  anguish  she  suffered  at 
returning  into  Spain  with  her  mother.  Julian  would 
have  folded  her  in  his  arms,  but  she  turned  from 
him, — 

"Touch  me  not,  my  father,"  she  cried,  shuddering. 
"Your  hand  pollutes  me.  Why  have  you  brought  me 
here?" 

"But,  my  daughter,"  answered  the  unhappy  parent, 
averting  his  face,  not  to  catch  the  reproachful  anguish 
of  her  eyes,  "surely  it  is  not  for  you  to  accuse  me?  All 
I  have  done  was  to  avenge  you." 

"Ah!"  she  answered  with  a  wild  laugh.  "That  is 
false.  I  called  for  you  in  my  trouble  to  take  me  from 
the  court,   and  the  reproachful   eyes   of  Egilona.     But 


OLD    COURT  UFE  IN  tPAIN.  IO7 

never,  never,  did  I  bid  you  visit  the  wrong  I  had  suf- 
fered upon  the  land.  What  had  Spain  to  do  with  me? 
No,  not  Florinda,  but  your  own  ambition  prompted  you. 
To  wear  the  crown  of  Roderich  was  your  aim.  I  was 
but  the  instrument  of  your  ambition.  Let  me  go,"  she 
shrieked,  struggling  to  rush  out.  "Do  you  see" — and 
she  pointed  upwards  to  the  chain  of  heights  shutting  in 
the  city — "the  hills  of  the  Sierra  take  strange  shapes — 
I  dare  not  look  on  the  green  valleys!  See  the  flying 
Goths  curse  me.  They  come!  They  come!  showing 
their  gaping  wounds.  Look,  look,  the  plains  run  with 
blood.  The  figure  of  the  king  rides  by!  I  know  him! 
He  is  fair.  It  is  Roderich,  but  sick  to  death.  See, 
his  horse  falters.  He  falls.  On,  on  they  come,  the 
Gothic  host,  but  with  the  face  of  corpses.  Surely  they 
did  not  ride  thus  to  battle?  Do  you  hear  the  voices  in 
the  air?  Death,  death  to  Florinda!  And  I  will  die,  as 
they  bid  me!" 

With  a  wild  cry  that  rang  round  the  perfumed  roves 
of  the  Alcazar,  before  Julian  could  stop  her,  she  had 
rushed  to  the  entrance  of  a  tower  which  jutted  from  the 
walls  into  the  garden,  and,  bounding  up  the  stairs, 
barred  the  upper  door. 

Her  father,  speechless  with  horror,  stood  rooted  to 
the  spot;  a  moment  more,  and  her  slight  form  leant  over 
the  battlements.  "Now,  now,  I  come,"  she  shouted. 
"No  ghost  can  haunt  me  there,"  and  from  the  topmost 
parapet  she  flung  herself! 

Hapless  Florinda!  Thus  she  passed;  but  still  in 
that  garden,  it  is  said,  the  spiked  palm-leaves  rustle  in 
the  breeze,  like  souls  in  pain;  the  canes  and  the  reeds 
bow    their  heads   over  the   fountains,   the  frogs   croak 


I08  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN. 

sadly  in  the  cisterns,  and  a  Moorish  cascade,  rushing 
down  a  flight  of  marble  steps,  sings  in  voiceless  melodies 
her  name. 


CHAPTER    Vni. 

FRANDINA  AND  HER  SON  PUT  TO  DEATH  BY  ALABOR. 

At  this  time  a  Mussulman  Emir,  named  Alabor, 
ruled  in  Cordoba  under  the  Sultan  Suleiman  of  Da- 
mascus. Alabor,  who  was  a  hard  and  zealous  follower 
of  Mahomet,  looked  with  suspicion  on  the  Christian 
apostates,  who  professed  his  faith  simply  to  save  their 
lives,  but  who  in  their  hearts  regarded  the  Moslem  in- 
vaders with  the  natural  hatred  of  a  conquered  race. 

Of  all  those  Gothic  knights  who  bore  arms  under 
Tharyk,  he  most  misdoubted  Julian.  Certain  movements 
of  insurrection  which  took  place  among  the  Christians 
in  Pelayo's  possessions  in  the  yet  unconquered  district 
of  the  Asturias,  were  not  without  suspicion  of  powerful 
encouragement  from  the  south. 

Julian,  on  the  death  of  Florinda,  had  resolved  to 
send  Frandina  and  his  little  son  back  to  Africa.  Did 
this  mean  that  he  was  preparing  to  play  false  with 
his  allies?  "A  traitor  once,  a  traitor  ever,"  thought 
the  crafty  Alabor.  That  he  might  decide  his  doubts  in 
true  Moslem  fashion,  he  called  in  one  of  those  miserable 
impostors  called  Fakirs,  who  wander  over  the  face  of 
the  land  in  the  East,  and  profess  to  read  the  future  by 
the  stars. 

After  listening  to  all  the  Emir  had  to  say,  the  Fakir 
began  his  incantation.     First  sand  was  sprinkled,  then 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  lOQ 

squares  and  circles  and  diagrams  were  drawn  upon  the 
floor;  then,  while  standing  in  the  midst,  he  affected  to 
read  the  lines  of  fate  from  a  parchment  covered  with 
cabalistic  characters.  "Oh,  Emir,"  he  said,  "your  words 
of  wisdom  are  justified.     Beware  of  the  apostates." 

"Enough,"  replied  the  Emir.     "They  shall  die." 

At  that  time  Julian  was  still  at  Cordoba  in  great 
grief  for  the  recent  death  of  Florinda.  "Tell  my  lord," 
he  said,  in  reply  to  the  earnest  invitation  of  Alabor,  "I 
pray  him  to  hold  me  excused  from  coming  to  visit  him. 
Such  of  my  followers  as  can  aid  him  in  any  warlike 
project  I  freely  send;  but  for  myself  I  am  unable." 

This  was  enough  for  Alabor;  here  was  ample  con- 
firmation of  the  Fakir's  prediction.  So,  not  to  be  behind- 
hand with  the  voice  of  fate,  he  at  once  condemned  to 
death  that  wily  churchman  and  renegade.  Archbishop 
Opas,  Frandina's  brother,  who  had  turned  the  battle  of 
the  Guadalete  against  Roderich,  and  with  him  the  two 
sons  of  Witica,  as  possible  pretenders  to  the  crown. 

Still  Julian  escaped  him  by  a  rapid  flight  into 
Aragon.  But  his  wife  Frandina  and  his  only  son  can 
be  reached. 

The  castle  of  Ceuta,  which  formed  part  of  the  Gothic 
(Iberian)  African  possessions,  then  called  Tigitania,  stood 
on  an  extreme  point,  a  cape  of  rocky  altitude,  with 
bastions  and  mullioned  walls;  in  the  midst  rose  a  central 
tower  or  citadel,  in  which  the  governor  had  his  abode. 
Few  casements  there  were,  and  those  looking  over  the 
tossing  billows  of  that  unquiet  Strait  which  flows  between 
the  two  continents,  so  that  each  coming  vessel  could  be 
noted  long  before  it  touched  the  quay;  a  place  wholly  of 


110  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

defence,  and  which  had  therefore  been  chosen  to  shelter 
JuHan's  wife  and  son. 

Frandina,  a  woman  of  masculine  courage  and  keen 
understanding,  had  at  all  times  fanned  the  flame  of 
her  husband's  ambition.  No  longer  young,  she  still 
bore  traces  of  that  radiant  beauty  which  had  held  her 
lord  faithful  in  the  dissolute  Courts  of  Witica  and 
Roderich. 

On  her  brow  should  have  rested  the  pointed  diadem 
worn  by  the  Gothic  queens;  not  on  a  Moorish  stranger 
who  could  never  learn  the  customs  of  the  land.  Ever 
hoping  to  attain  the  object  of  her  desires,  she  wilfully 
worked  on  the  evil  passions  of  her  lord,  before  the  ca- 
lamity which  befell  Florinda  came  as  a  cause  and  a 
reason  for  treason. 

No  figure  of  that  romantic  period  stands  out  in 
stronger  relief  than  that  of  Frandina,  who  moves  and 
speaks  before  us  in  her  habit  as  she  lived  in  spite  of 
the  long  track  of  centuries. 

Without  news  from  Spain,  knowing  nothing  of  what 
has  happened  at  Cordoba  to  her  brother  Opas  or  to 
her  lord,  she  eats  out  her  heart  in  ceaseless  watching 
for  some  white-sailed  felucca  or  swift-rowed  trireme  to 
bring  her  tidings.  All  day  she  had  trod  the  battlements 
looking  northward,  and  strained  her  eyes  in  vain.  Now 
she  sits  in  her  chamber.  An  iron  lamp  casts  a  weird 
light  on  the  tapestries  which  line  the  walls,  the  wind 
moans  without  about  the  turrets,  and  the  dash  of  the 
waves  roll  deep  below. 

Is  it  the  hollow  moan  of  the  far-off  tempest,  or  the 
screech  of  an  owl  which  makes  her  start  from  her  seat 
and  eagerly  listen? 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  Ill 

There  is  no  fall  of  feet  upon  the  winding  stairs,  but 
a  well-known  voice  comes  to  her  so  plainly  that  she 
rushes  to  the  door.  Ere  she  can  reach  it,  her  brother 
Opas  stands  before  her,  habited  as  she  last  saw  him 
in  the  flowing  vestments  of  an  archbishop;  not  in  aspect 
as  he  appeared  in  life,  but  as  a  wan  and  shadowy- 
spectre  unfolding  itself  to  her  sight  in  the  darkness 
around.  Before  she  can  speak  he  waves  her  off.  He 
is  ghastly  pale,  and  drops  of  blood  seem  to  fall  from  his 
head.  With  one  hand  he  points  to  the  opposite  wall 
where  burned  like  orbs  of  fire  the  word,  Bev/are! 

"Touch  me  not,  sister,"  a  hollow  voice  utters;  "I 
am  come  from  the  grave  to  warn  you.  Guard  well  your 
son.  The  enemies  of  our  house  are  near."  Thus  speak- 
ing all  disappears.  His  coming  and  going  alike  mys- 
terious. Brave  as  she  is,  a  horror  comes  over  Frandina 
she  never  knew  before. 

Next  morning,  in  the  fair  sunlight,  a  swiftly  rowing 
galley  brings  the  news  of  Opas'  death  and  Julian's 
flight.  Not  a  moment  is  to  be  lost!  There  in  the 
offing  she  descries  the  Moorish  fleet,  bearing  the  Emir 
from  Cordoba.  The  wind  blows  fair  for  Africa — be- 
fore noon  he  will  be  off  the  shore.  Fifty  Moors,  who 
form  part  of  the  garrison,  are  put  to  death  with  in- 
credible cruelty  for  fear  of  treachery:  the  city  gates  are 
closed. 

Alabor,  whose  fury  knows  no  bounds,  for  he  has 
calculated  on  arriving  before  the  news  had  reached 
Frandina,  orders  the  castle  to  be  assaulted  on  every 
side.  The  walls  are  carried.  Frandina,  shut  up  in 
the  citadel  with  a  forlorn  hope,  had  no  thought  but  for 
the  safety  of  her  son.     How  conceal  him?    A  mother's 


112  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

wit  is  keen.  Among  the  living  he  is  not  safe,  but  surely 
they  will  not  seek  him  with  the  dead.  Passing  down 
long  flights  of  narrow  steps  she  carries  him  below  into 
a  dark,  damp  chapel.  Scarcely  a  ray  of  light  penetrates 
the  gloom. 

"Are  you  afraid  of  the  darkness,  my  boy?"  she 
asks,  kissing  his  warm  cheek. 

"No,  mother.  I  shall  fancy  that  it  is  night,  and  try 
to  sleep." 

On  one  side  of  a  narrow  marble  aisle,  held  up  by 
clustered  pillars,  is  the  freshly-built  tomb  of  Florinda, 
whose  body  has  been  carried  here  from  Cordoba. 

"Do  you  fear  your  dead  sister,  my  boy?"  again 
Frandina  asks. 

"No,  mother;  the  dead  can  do  no  harm.  Why 
should  I  fear  Florinda?" 

Unbarring  the  entrance  which  leads  into  the  vault, 
Frandina  stands  on  the  threshold,  her  arms  around 
her  son. 

"Listen,"  she  says,  and  her  kisses  rain  upon  his 
cheek  as  she  strains  him  to  her  bosom  in  an  agony  of 
fear.  "The  Moors  from  Spain  have  sailed  over  to 
murder  you.  Stay  here  with  your  dead  sister,  dear 
child;  her  spirit  will  guard  you.  Lie  quiet  for  your 
Ufe!" 

The  boy  kissed  his  mother,  and  fearlessly  descends 
the  steps,  to  where  the  marble  coffin  holding  Florinda's 
body  lay  on  a  still  uncovered  stand.  The  faded  wreaths 
cast  on  it  give  out  a  stale  perfume. 

All  that  day  and  the  next  and  the  following  night 
the  brave  boy  lay  still. 

Meanwhile,  the  troops  of  the  Emir  soon  penetrate 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  I  I  3 

into  the  citadel,  and  Alabor  himself  forces  his  way  into 
the  chamber  of  the  countess. 

"My  lord,"  she  says,  rising  from  the  ponderous 
chair  in  which  she  is  seated,  a  sarcastic  courtesy  in  her 
tone  and  in  the  low  obeisance  with  which  she  greets 
him,  "you  are  pleased  to  profit  somewhat  ungallantly 
by  the  absence  of  my  lord.  Do  you  deem  this  a  fitting 
way  to  enter  the  stronghold  of  him  to  whom  you  owe 
the  conquest  of  Spain?" 

The  Emir,  surprised  by  the  dignified  calm  of  her 
demeanour,  would  have  withdrawn,  but  the  fakir  who 
had  followed  him,  pulled  the  sleeve  of  his  garment,  and 
whispers  in  his  ear:  "Ask  for  her  son." 

Low  as  the  words  were  spoken,  she  heard  them  and 
turned  pale.  "My  son,  great  Alabor,  is  with  the  dead. 
Let  him  rest  in  peace." 

"Wife  of  Don  Julian,"  cries  the  Emir,  "you  trifle 
with  me.  Where  is  he?  Tell  me,  or  torture  shall 
make  you." 

"Emir,"  she  spoke  again,  and  her  calm  face  shows 
no  trace  of  fear,  "if  I  have  not  spoken  the  truth,  may 
everlasting  fire  be  my  portion.     He  is  with  the  dead." 

Alabor  is  confounded  by  the  composure  of  her 
answer.  So  great  was  her  courage  and  the  dignity 
with  which  she  faced  him,  that  he  was  just  about  to 
retire,  when  the  fakir  again  broke  in, — 

"Let  me  deal  with  her,  my  lord,"  he  said.  "The 
heart  of  the  Emir  is  too  tender.  I  will  find  the  boy. 
Soldiers,  search  the  vaults  of  the  castle." 

No  trace  upon  the  countenance  of  Frandina  be- 
trayed alarm.  She  herself  led  the  way  to  the  different 
subterranean  chambers  within   the   citadel.     When   the 

Old  Court  Life  in  Spain.   I.  8 


6LD   court  life  in  SPAIt^. 

searchers  and  the  grim  old  fakir,  hideous  and  naked, 
save  for  a  ragged  cloth  about  his  loins,  but  esteemed 
all  the  more  holy  from  his  filth,  descended  the  winding 
stairs  leading  to  the  chapel,  Frandina  does  not  falter. 
In  her  presence  every  corner  was  ransacked  by  the  aid 
of  torches.  Nothing  was  found.  But  as  all  were  leav- 
ing, and  she  stood  already  under  the  arch  of  the  door, 
to  see  them  all  file  safely  by,  some  gleam  of  relief,  some 
unconscious  look  of  joy  passed  over  her  face.  It  was 
noted  by  the  horrible  fakir. 

"She  rejoices,"  was  his  thought.  "We  are  leaving 
the  boy  behind.  Let  further  search  be  made,"  he 
commands,  turning  back  the  soldiers,  whose  feet  were 
already  on  the  stairs. 

"The  boy  is  with  the  dead,"  Frandina  had  said. 
Now  the  words  came  back  to  him  with  a  special  mean- 
ing, for  the  walls  were  lined  with  tombs  which  stand 
out  conspicuous  in  the  vivid  glare  of  the  torches,  strik- 
ing on  the  marble  panels.  On  one  was  the  escutcheon 
of  an  ancient  knight,  surmounted  by  a  coronet;  there 
a  sculptured  figure  in  armour  lay  at  rest;  further  on  a 
deeply  indented  effigy  in  coloured  stone,  upon  which 
an  inscription  sets  forth  the  valour  of  the  mouldering 
bones  within.  The  tomb  of  Florinda,  white  and  glisten- 
ing by  the  side  of  the  others,  displayed  her  effigy  in 
polished  marble,  a  delicately  chiselled  form — this  at 
once  attracted  the  attention  of  the  fakir. 

"Who  lies  there?"  he  asks,  turning  his  twinkling 
eyes,  overshadowed  by  hairy  eyebrows,  on  the  shrink- 
ing figure  of  Frandina,  who,  trembling  from  head  to 
foot,  sought  to  hide  her  face  in  the  deep  shadow  of  a 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN.  I  1 5 

pillared  vault,   beside  the  gate  of  entrance;   "this  tomb 
seems  the  newest." 

"It  is  my  daughter's  tomb,"  replied  Frandina;  but 
with  all  her  fortitude,  she  was  conscious  of  a  trembling 
in  her  voice,  and  her  dry  lips  could  scarcely  articulate 
the  words,  "She  is  but  lately  dead." 

The  fakir  eyed  her  with  a  devDish  glance.  Then, 
turning  to  the  Moorish  soldier,  whose  eyes  rolled  under 
the  high  turban  with  a  wicked  satisfaction  at  the  dis- 
comfiting of  the  Christian, — 

"Search  within,"  he  orders,  his  gaze  bent  on  her. 
Alas!  it  was  soon  done.  The  entrance  of  the  recently 
entered  monument  was  partly  open;  within  lay  what 
death  had  spared  of  Florinda,  the  bier  covered  with  a 
fine  cloth  of  Eastern  tissue,  the  hands  covered  with 
precious  stones. 

At  first,  the  Nubian  guard,  staggered  at  the  strange 
sight,  fall  back,  but  soon  recalled  by  the  stern  voice  of 
the  fakir,  they  lift  the  pall.  The  boy  lay  underneath! 
He  was  asleep,  his  soft  cheek  turned  upwards,  cradled 
on  his  arm. 

Like  a  figure  carved  in  stone  stood  Frandina,  but 
when  she  saw  her  son  her  mother's  heart  gave  way. 
With  a  shriek,  so  piercing  that  it  woke  the  echoes  in  the 
prisons  underneath,  she  dashed  forward  and  cast  herself 
upon  the  child. 

"Mercy,  O  Emir!  if  you  have  ever  known  a  mother's 
care!  Mercy!  mercy  I  This  is  my  only  child — the  joy 
of  my  life — my  little  son!  Take  me  for  him!"  and 
raising  herself  on  her  knees  with  frantic  passion,  the 
boy  clinging  round  her  neck,  she  tries  to  grasp  his 
hands. 

8* 


Il6  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

Wrenching  himself  from  her  as  if  she  were  some 
noxious  animal,  Alabor  thunders  to  the  guards:  "Take 
this  woman's  son  from  her,  and  bear  her  hence  to  the 
deepest  dungeon." 

The  boy  stood  alone  before  the  Emir,  big  tears 
rolling  down  his  face,  not  from  fear,  but  for  the  sake  of 
his  mother,  whose  frantic  screams  were  heard  long  after 
they  had  dragged  her  away. 

If  Alabor  had  but  a  spark  of  human  pity,  he  would 
have  melted  to  the  pretty  boy,  who  faced  him  so  bravely, 
but  he  had  sworn  the  destruction  of  Don  Julian's  race, 
and  his  heart  hardened  within  him  as  he  gazed  on  the 
innocent  eyes.  With  a  keen  searching  glance  he  measured 
the  slight  figure  of  the  child,  and  smiled  to  see  how  frail 
he  was  and  small. 

"Yusa,"  he  said  to  the  fakir,  "be  you  the  keeper  of 
Julian's  son.  Guard  him  as  you  love  me."  And  so  he 
and  his  guards  departed,  leaving  them  alone. 

"I  pray  you,"  said  the  boy,  undaunted  by  the  looks 
of  his  grim  companion,  who  stood  holding  a  torch  and 
watching  him  under  his  overhanging  eyebrows,  "to  give 
me  air.  I  have  laid  three  days  in  this  close  tomb,  and 
I  am  faint." 

Without  a  word  they  mount  the  winding  stair,  until 
they  reach  the  platform  of  the  keep.  Through  the  high 
turrets  was  a  wondrous  view  across  the  Straits,  lined  by 
broad  currents  of  varying  blues  and  greens,  to  where, 
dim  in  the  distance,  lay  the  lowlands  of  Spain.  Round 
and  round  flew  the  seagulls,  below  the  waves  beat, 
thundering  on  the  rocks  which  guard  the  harbour,  crest- 
ing back  in  foam.     As  the  child  stood  near  the  battle- 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN.  I  I  7 

ments,  the  sea  wind  raising  his  curly  hair,  he  gave  a  cry 
of  joy  and  claps  his  hands. 

"Do  you  know  what  land  that  is  opposite?"  asks  the 
fakir,  pointing  to  the  dim  coast  line,  an  evil  leer  upon 
his  lips. 

"It  is  my  country/'  is  the  answer,  "we  come  from 
Spain;  my  mother  told  me." 

"Then  bless  it,  my  boy;  stretch  forth  your  arms." 

As  the  boy  loosened  his  hold  of  the  parapet,  the 
cuiming  fakir  seized  him  by  the  waist,  and,  with  a  sud- 
den motion,  flings  him  over  the  battlements.  Every  bone 
in  his  delicate  body  was  broken  ere  it  reached  the  rock 
where  he  lay,  a  little  lifeless  heap. 

"How  fares  it  with  Julian's  son?"  asks  the  voice  of 
Alabor,  as  he  appears  on  the  platform  of  the  keep. 

"Well,"  is  the  brief  answer. 

"Is  he  safe?"  he  asks  again,  looking  round. 

"He  is  safe,"  answered  Yusa;  "behold!" 

And  the  Emir  looked  over  and  saw  the  battered 
form,  like  a  slight  speck  below,  around  it  the  seagulls 
and  vultures  already  circling. 

The  following  morning,  at  the  break  of  day,  in  the 
great  court  of  the  castle,  from  which  all  the  issues  to 
the  different  towers  open,  Frandina  is  led  out  for  execu= 
tion. 

That  she  knows  her  son  is  dead,  is  written  in  her 
eyes.  No  word  passes  her  lips.  Like  a  queen  she 
moves,  command  in  every  gesture.  With  her  the  Chris- 
tians of  the  garrison  are  brought  forth  to  suffer.  As  the 
dismal  procession  passes  round  the  court,  the  voice  of 
the  insatiable  Alabor  is  heard, — 

"Behold,   O  men  of  Spain,   the  wife   of  your  coin- 


I  1 8  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

mander.  See  the  ruin  to  which  her  treason  would  have 
brought  you.  Let  every  man  take  a  stone  and  fling  it 
at  her  till  she  dies.  He  that  refuses  shall  have  his  head 
struck  off.  In  the  hand  of  God  is  vengeance.  Not  on 
our  head  be  her  blood." 

How  or  where  Julian  himself  died  is  not  certain. 
Some  chronicles  say  he  perished  in  the  mountains  of 
Navarre,  where  he  had  taken  refuge;  others  that  he 
met  his  death  in  the  castle  of  Marmello,  near  Huesca, 
in  Aragon.  A  violent  death  of  some  sort  came  to  the 
great  Kingmaker  of  Spain. 

On  his  name  a  perpetual  curse  rests,  and  to  this 
day,  in  Spain  "Julian"  is  synonymous  with  traitor. 


CHAPTER    IX. 
THE  MOORS   AT  SEVILLE. — MOUSA  AND   ABDUL-ASIS. 

Meanwhile  the  great  Emir  Mousa  is  moved  by 
fierce  jealousy  of  the  success  of  Tharyk  of  "the  one- 
eye."  Not  only  had  he  overrun  the  mountains  of  the 
Moon  and  conquered  Granada,  but  the  city  of  Toledo, 
the  capital  of  northern  Spain,  is  opened  to  him  by  the 
Jews. 

This  is  too  much  to  bear  from  an  inferior.  Swift 
messengers  are  despatched  across  the  Straits  to  bid  him 
wait  until  Mousa  arrives.  He  laughs  to  scorn  the  message, 
and  battles  as  before,  his  light  squadrons  penetrating 
farther  and  farther  into  the  north  of  Spain. 

Mousa  had  many  sons,  but  history  concerns  itself 
with  one  only,  by  name  Abdul-asis,  pale-skinned,  with 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN.  I  I Q 

large  romantic  eyes  and  a  too  tender  heart.  Abdul- 
asis  sailed  with  his  father  across  the  Straits,  and  a 
great  army  of  Moors  and  illustrious  emirs  accompany 
them. 

"By  the  head  of  the  Prophet,"  quoth  Mousa,  as  he 
consulted  the  map  of  Spain,  "that  hireling  of  the  one- 
eye  has  left  us  no  land  to  conquer.  He  is  a  glutton, 
who  eateth  all."  But  on  a  more  minute  examination, 
it  was  found  that  there  was  still  room  in  the  vast 
country  of  Spain  for  earning  further  laurels.  Tharyk 
had  as  yet  left  Andalusia  unconquered. 

Andalusia!  the  very  name  is  poetry — mystic,  un- 
fathomed,  vague!  Reaching  far  back  into  fabulous  ages 
where  history  cannot  follow!  The  home  of  joiiglerie, 
magic  and  song!  Would  that  I  could  paint  the  tur- 
quoise of  its  skies,  the  endless  purple  of  its  boundless 
plains,  the  dusky  shade  of  orange  and  myrtle  woods 
dashed  with  the  vivid  green! 

What  art!  what  knowledge!  And  the  sensuous 
charm  of  a  heavenly  cHmate,  where  winter  is  never 
known,  and  spring  passes  into  summer  without  a 
struggle;  a  land  loved  by  the  veiled  beauties  of  the 
East,  looking  down  through  shadows  of  the  fretted 
miradores,  marble  galleries  and  patios,  on  barbican 
towers  and  Roman  walls! 

And  what  a  people,  cloudless  in  temper  as  the 
heavens!  To  love  flowers,  to  dance  segnidillas,  and 
oles,  and  to  tell  tales,  that  is  your  Andalusian — grouped 
in  circles  anywhere,  under  a  hedge  or  a  plane-tree,  on 
a  grassy  knoll,  in  gilded  halls,  or  beneath  painted 
arches.  A  happy,  thoughtless  race  at  all  times,  taking 
life  and  conquest  as  it  comes. 


120  OLD    COURT  LIFE   IN   SPAIN. 

If  Andalusia  is  left  to  Mousa,  Tharyk  has  lost  the 
fairest  jewel  of  Spain. 

Abdul-asis  spoke  to  his  father. 

"My  lord  and  father,"  he  said,  "as  yet  I  have  done 
nothing  to  deserve  a  sword.  Behold,  when  my  service 
is  over,  and  I  return  to  Egypt  and  appear  before  the 
Sultan,  what  will  he  say  when  I  answer  that  I  have 
gained  no  battle,  and  taken  no  city  or  castle?  Good 
my  father,  if  you  love  me,  grant  me  some  command, 
and  let  me  gain  a  name  worthy  of  your  son." 

To  this  Mousa  answered:  "Allah  be  praised!  The 
heart  of  Abdul-asis  beats  in  the  right  place.  Your  de- 
sire,  my  son,  shall  be  granted.  While  I  go  north,  to 
besiege  Merida,  you  shall  march  southwards.  Seville 
has  defeated  the  Moors,  and  quartered  Christian  troops 
in  the  barbican.  Be  it  your  care  to  drive  out  these 
unbelieving  dogs,  and  plant  once  more  the  Crescent  on 
the  Giralda  tower.  Reduce  the  city,  and  spoil  the  land. 
Then  pass  southward,  and  conquer  the  province  of 
Murcia,  where  the  Gothic  Teodomir  defends  himself  with 
a  handful  of  troops." 

When  Abdul-asis,  who  read  the  Persian  poets  and 
had  himself  tried  his  hand  at  verse,  came  in  sight  of 
beautiful  Seville,  lying  Hke  a  white  hly  surrounded  by 
the  shadows  of  dark  woods,  he  sighed, — 

"Alas!  is  it  for  me,"  he  said,  "to  bring  destruction 
upon  so  fair  a  scene?  Why  am  I  come  to  dye  with 
blood  those  flowery  groves,  and  burden  the  tide  of  the 
Guadalquivir   with   corpses?      Alas!    why    did    not   my 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN,  121 

father  choose  some  place  less  lovely  on  which  to  bring 
ruin  than  this  the  palm-crowned  queen  of  cities!" 

Thus  mourned  Abdul-asis,  but  not  so  the  fiery 
Africans  whom  he  commanded.  They  gazed  on  the 
walls  with  wrath,  and  longed  to  flesh  their  scimitars  in 
Christian  blood. 

It  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  the  meiciful 
Abdul-asis  stopped  the  massacre  when  the  city  fell.  It 
pained  his  gentle  heart,  for  its  many  beauties,  special!)^ 
the  palm-planted  gardens  of  the  Alcazar,  vocal  with 
purling  streams  and  bubbling  fountains,  so  dear  to  the 
Arab  fancy. 

"Here,"  thought  Abdul-asis,  as  he  wandered  among 
the  myrtle-bordered  paths,  fragrant  with  jasmine  and 
violet,  "is  the  paradise  promised  to  the  faithful,  but 
where  are  the  houris,  whose  white  embraces  are  to 
make  it  sweet?"  Neither  the  voluptuous  movements  of 
the  dancing  girls  (for  Seville  in  all  ages  has  been  famed 
for  the  bailie)  moving  with  uplifted  arms  and  quivering 
limbs  in  the  vito  or  the  zapaleado  intoxicated  his  senses; 
nor  the  voices  of  the  young  nifias  chanting  the  malagtieiias 
to  cyther  and  lute,  drew  him  from  the  poetic  melancholy 
which  possessed  his  soul,  as  he  turned  his  steps  from 
alley  to  alley,  not  having  yet  found  the  ideal  of  which 
he  is  in  search. 

But  the  son  of  Mousa  was  a  warrior,  though  the 
gods  had  made  him  poetical.  He  could  not  long  be 
idle,  and  hastened  to  fulfil  the  second  mission  confided 
to  him  by  Mousa — to  overcome  the  far-off  province  of 
Murcia. 

Another  faithful  knight  who  had  survived  the  battle 
of  the  Guadalete  was  Teodomir,  who,  by  skilful  manage- 


122  OLD    COURT   LIFE   IN  SPAIN. 

ment,  had  entrenched  himself  in  Murcia.  Not  only 
brave,  but  singularly  prudent,  Teodomir  had  observed 
that  to  oppose  the  Moors  openly  in  the  field  was  to 
ensure  defeat,  therefore  he  had  fortified,  as  best  he 
could,  every  wild  recess  of  the  rocky  hills  lying  toward 
the  coast,  and  every  rise  and  knoll  whence  he  could 
shoot  down  arrows  and  missiles.  So  that  when  Abdul- 
asis  appeared  in  the  land,  cleft  asunder  by  wide  rivers 
and  divided  by  swamps  and  fiats,  he  encountered  no 
enemy. 

"This  is  a  blind  warfare,"  he  cried,  "a  war  without 
a  foe.  What  manner  of  man  is  this  Goth  who  wages 
war  in  the  clouds,  and  with  a  few  raw  troops  holds  my 
army  in  check?" 

With  a  grim  smile  Teodomir  marked  the  success 
of  his  tactics.  Spies  told  him  that,  in  the  council  of 
Abdul-asis,  retreat  had  already  been  mooted,  and  more 
and  more  he  insisted  upon  giving  his  enemy  no  chance 
in  the  open. 

Not  so  his  sons.  "What  glory  is  there  here?"  say 
these  youths.  "Let  us  go  forth  and  face  him.  We 
are  as  good  as  he.  If  our  men  are  less  disciplined, 
courage  makes  up  the  balance." 

"Fools,"  answered  old  Teodomir,  laying  his  wrinkled 
hands  upon  them,  and  drawing  them  to  him,  that  he 
might  make  them  if  possible  understand  his  counsels. 
"Glory  dazzles  from  afar,  but  safety  is  the  best  when  a 
foe  knocks  at  the  door." 

Continued  dropping  wears  a  stone.  To  his  great 
joy,  as  the  sun  rose  and  the  weary  eyes  of  handsome 
Abdul-asis   turned   towards   the   marshy   plains,   beheld 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  I  23 

Teodomir  riding  onwards  towards  the  camp  at  the  head 
of  his  troops,  a  son  on  either  hand,  the  old  Goth  in 
the  centre  in  shining  armour,  with  nodding  plumes,  pre- 
ceded by  flags  and  horsemen. 

"Now  Allah  be  praised!"  he  exclaims.  "At  last! 
Saddle  my  war-horse  Suleiman,  and  let  all  the  sheikhs 
follow  me,  for  it  is  written  in  the  book  of  fate  that  these 
dogs  of  Christians  are  given  into  our  hand." 

"Alas!  my  sons,"  said  Teodomir,  reining  up  his 
steed,  as  his  practised  eye  showed  him  the  purpose  of 
the  dark  body  of  advancing  Arabs,  with  the  green  flags, 
galloping  rapidly  in  the  rear,  under  the  cover  of  the 
heights.  "Alas!  it  has  happened  as  I  said.  We  are 
cut  off.  What  can  our  raw  troops  do  against  these  well- 
armed  Arabs?  Let  us  make  for  the  fastness  of  Orihuela 
while  we  can." 

The  sons,  however,  would  not  Hsten,  but  Hke  vain 
youths  opposed  their  father's  counsel,  as  did  also  the 
captains.  The  Moor  asked  for  nothing  better.  He  at- 
tacked them  fiercely  in  the  open  plain,  cut  down  the 
two  presumptuous  boys  before  their  father's  eyes,  and 
beat  his  troops,  who  fled  on  all  sides. 

Nor  could  Teodomir  stay  the  flight.  Seeing  that 
all  was  lost,  and  his  sons  dead,  he  seized  the  bridle  of 
a  horse  ridden  for  him  by  a  little  page,  who  tended 
him  in  his  tent,  and  who  like  the  rest  was  spurring  on- 
ward in  full  flight. 

"Tarry  a  moment,  my  son,"  says  Teodomir,  grasp- 
ing the  bridle  with  an  iron  grip.  "Mount  behind  and 
part  not  from  me,  for  I  will  save  thy  Kfe!" 

So  digging  his  huge  spurs  into  his  horse's  flanks,  at 
which    the    well-trained   animal,    used   to  his   practised 


124  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

touch,  reared  indignantly  on  its  hind  legs  and  pawed 
the  air,  then  started  off  in  a  wild  gallop,  swift  as  the 
rushing  wind.  Nor  did  they  pause  until,  mounting  the 
steep  zig-zag  path,  they  were  both  safe  within  the  for- 
tress of  Orihuela. 

There  it  still  stands,  a  castle  of  defence,  crowned 
by  dark  bulwarks  on  a  mountain  chain,  an  out-look  for 
scores  of  miles  over  a  flat  country  towards  Granada 
and  the  sea.  Round  and  round  the  base  winds  the 
road  from  Alicante,  through  overhanging  lanes,  under 
palm-trees  and  embowering  citron  woods,  broken  by 
red  earthed  barrancas.  The  town  itself  (Auri-welah)  still 
very  Eastern,  with  domed  church  and  castellated  towers, 
the  whole  district  with  great  tidal  rivers  cutting  through, 
fertile  beyond  words. 

As  the  day  fell,  and  the  sun  went  down  in  lemon- 
coloured  clouds,  Abdul-asis  approached,  thinking  to  find 
an  easy  conquest.  But  to  his  amazement,  the  walls  ap- 
peared fully  garrisoned,  and  from  the  keep  a  proud  flag 
floated,  bearing  the  colours  of  the  Goths. 

"How  is  this?"  said  the  son  of  Mousa.  "Is  it  a 
necromancy?  Or  have  these  men  risen  from  the  earth? 
With  my  own  eyes  I  saw  Teodomir  flying  alone,  a  page 
riding  behind  him.  His  sons  are  dead,  his  forces 
scattered.  Who  are  these  but  fiends  he  has  summoned 
by  magic  to  his  aid?" 

And  fear  fell  upon  him  as  he  gazed,  and  he  com- 
manded that  no  attack  be  ventured,  but  that  the  camp 
should  be  formed  at  the  base  of  the  rock  until  morning. 

Upon  which  Teodomir,  who  was  looking  out,  took 
a  flag  of  truce,  fastened  it  to  a  lance,  put  a  herald's 
tabard  on  the  back  of  the  page  who  had  fled  with  him, 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  12$ 

and  a  high  crowned  hat  on  his  head,  and  went  down  to 
where  the  purple  tent  and  the  Crescent  standard  marked 
the  spot  where  Abdul-asis  was  to  be  found. 

"I  come,"  said  Teodomir,  in  a  tone  of  lofty  courtesy, 
raising  his  iron  vizor,  and  showing  the  stern  face  of  a 
warrior,  the  young  page  behind  him,  proud  of  the  parti- 
coloured dress,  and  swaying  the  flag  of  truce  in  cadence 
to  his  words — "I  come  as  a  Gothic  knight  into  your 
presence,  most  magnanimous  son  of  Mousa,  whom  men 
call  'the  merciful,'  to  treat  of  the  surrender  of  the 
castle.  As  you  see,  our  walls  are  fully  manned,  and  we 
have  food  for  a  lengthened  siege.  But  much  blood  has 
flowed.  I  have  lost  my  sons,  and  fain  would  spare  the 
lives  of  my  people.  Promise  that  we  may  pass  un- 
molested, and  when  the  rising  sun  tips  the  circle  of 
mountains  towards  the  East,  we  wiH  surrender.  Other- 
wise, we  will  fight  until  none  are  left." 

Abdul-asis,  young  in  craft  and  unsuspecting,  as  be- 
came the  poetic  quality  of  his  soul,  was  greatly  struck 
with  the  bold  words  of  the  veteran,  who  stood  his 
ground  so  valiantly  alone  against  an  army.  The  castle, 
too,  was  strong,  and  appeared  amply  defended. 
Generosity  in  this  case  was  policy.  He  consented 
gladly,  standing  forth  alone,  a  crimson  caftan  thrown 
over  his  armour,  the  folds  of  his  turban  shading  his 
massive  Egyptian  features  and  his  lustrous  eyes.  To 
the  articles  of  capitulation,  he  hastened  to  affix  his  seaU 
Then  he  addressed  Teodomir, — 

"Tell  me,  bold  Christian,"  said  he,  "you  who  have 
ventured  alone  into  the  Moorish  camp,  now  that  we  are 
friends,  of  what  force  is  the  garrison  of  Orihuela?" 

A  grim  smile  spread  over  the  face  of  the  veteran. 


126  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

"Wait  and  see,"   was  his  answer.     "With  the  morning 
Hght  we  will  evacuate  the  place." 


As  the  sun  rises  in  glory  behind  the  Eastern 
mountain  tips,  and  its  first  rays  strike  upon  the  battle- 
ments, Teodomir  appears,  followed  by  a  motley  crowd 
of  old  women,  grey-beards,  and  children  tottering  down 
the  descent. 

Abdul-asis  waited  with  wondering  eyes  until  they 
had  reached  the  plain.  "Where,"  he  said,  "O  Teodomir, 
are  the  valiant  soldiers  who  lined  the  walls,  and  have 
so  well  maintained  the  honour  of  the  Goths?" 

"Soldiers,"  answers  Teodomir;  "by  the  Lord,  I  have 
none.  My  garrison  is  before  you.  These  manned  the 
walls.  My  page" — here  he  pointed  to  the  stripling  dis- 
guised in  the  habit  of  a  herald,  the  heavy  coat  dragging 
after  him  upon  the  ground,  the  helmet  falling  over  his 
face — "is  my  herald,  guard,  and  army." 

Ere  Teodomir  had  finished  speaking,  a  great  uproar 
rises  among  the  Moors. 

"Tear  him  limb  from  limb,"  cry  the  sheiks.  "Cut 
the  throat  of  the  Christian  dog.  Let  him  not  live  who 
deceives  the  Moslems  of  Islam!"  But  with  a  stern 
gesture  Abdul-asis  interposed:  "Let  no  man  dare  to 
touch  the  Christian  knight,"  he  orders.  "By  righteous 
fraud  he  has  defended  his  castle.  I  command  that  the 
rights  of  war  are  granted  him." 

Then,  taking  Teodomir  by  the  hand  he  led  him  to 
his  tent,  and  orders  wine  and  meat  to  be  served  to  him 
as  to  himself.  And  in  memory  of  this  defence  the 
provinces    of   Murcia    and    Valencia,    all    through    the 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAItt.  1^7 

Moorish    occupation,    were    known    as    "the    Land    of 
Tadmir"  or  "  Teodomir." 

Thanks  to  the  rivahy  between  these  two  commanders, 
Mousa  and  Tharyk,  Gothic  Spain  had  fallen  to  the 
Moors  in  an  incredibly  short  space  of  time;  the  banners 
of  the  Crescent  waved  from  Pelayo's  country  in  the 
mountains  of  the  Asturias  in  the  north,  to  Calpe  and 
the  Pillars  of  Hercules  in  the  south.  From  the  borders 
of  Lusitania  (Estremadura)  in  the  west,  to  the  coast  of 
Tarragona  and  Valencia  in  the  east,  and  the  mighty 
city  of  Saragossa,  where  so  many  Christians  had  taken 
refuge,  also  yielded. 

At  length  a  summons  came  from  Sultan  Suleiman  at 
Damascus,  to  both  leaders,  to  appear  before  him,  to 
render  an  account  of  their  conquests  and  their  spoils, 
as  well  as  to  setde  the  justice  of  those  dissensions  which 
raged  so  fiercely  between  them. 

Before  he  left  Spain,  Mousa  addressed  a  letter  to 
his  son,  at  Seville.  "  Son  of  my  heart,"  he  wrote,  "  may 
Allah  guard  thee !  Thou  art  of  too  tender  and  confiding 
a  nature.  Listen  to  thy  father's  words.  Avoid  all 
treachery,  for,  being  in  thyself  loyal,  thou  mayest  be 
caught  by  it.  Trust  no  one  who  counsels  it.  I  have 
placed  with  thee  at  Seville,  according  to  the  inexperience 
of  thy  age,  our  kinsman,  the  discreet  Ayub.  Listen  to 
his  counsels  in  all  things,  as  thou  wouldst  to  myself. 
Beware,  too,  O  my  son,  of  the  seductions  of  love.  As 
yet  thy  heart  is  untouched.  May  Allah  so  preserve  it! 
Love  is  an  idle  passion,  which  enfeebles  the  soul  and 
blinds  the  judgment.  Love  renders  the  mighty  weak, 
and  makes  slaves  of  princes.  Farewell.  May  Allah 
guard  thee  and  lengthen  thy  days." 


128  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 


CHAPTER   X. 

ABDUL-ASIS  AND  EGILONA. 


The  Alcazar  at  Seville  (each  Spanish  city  has  its 
Alcazar)  still  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  city.  Not  the 
decorated  palace  we  see  it  now,  rebuilt  by  the  Toledian 
Zalubi  for  Prince  Abdurrahman,  and  afterwards  enlarged 
and  beautified  by  Don  Pedro  el  Cruel,  in  imitation  of 
the  Alhambra  of  Grenada,  but  a  veritable  citadel,  sur- 
rounded by  low  tapia  walls,  on  the  verge  of  the  tidal 
current  of  the  Guadalquivir,  and  flanked  by  the  Gothic 
tower  {Torre  del  oro)  which  still  remains. 

Not  a  poetic  ruin,  this  Alcazar  like  the  Alhambra, 
but  a  real  castle,  whole  and  entire,  ready  to  receive,  to 
this  day,  emirs  or  sultans,  kings,  queens,  or  princes, 
whenever  their  good  pleasure  calls  them  to  Seville. 

Behind  lie  the  gardens,  flushed  with  roses,  oleanders 
and  pomegranates,  approached  by  stately  terraces  sweet 
with  the  familiar  scent  of  carnation,  violet,  and  jasmine. 
A  delicious  plaisance  formed  into  a  series  of  squares, 
divided  by  low  myrtle  hedges,  and  orange-lined  walls, 
central  fountains  bubbling  up  in  sheets  of  foam,  and 
streams  and  runnels,  tanks  and  ponds,  along  which  are 
walks  paved  with  variegated  tiles. 

The  "azahar"  of  a  thousand  blossoms  is  in  the  air, 
golden  oranges  hang  tempting  on  the  stem,  and  deeply- 
tinted  butterflies  course  each  other  among  embowered 
alleys,  leading  to  gaily  painted  kiosks  and  pavilions  with 
latticed  walls. 

Whether  Abdul- asis  exacted  the  tribute  demanded 
by  the  Moorish  law  of  a  hundred  Christian  virgins,  "fifty 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  12g 

rich  and  fifty  poor,"  to  adorn  his  harem,  I  cannot  say. 
He  would  scarcely  have  dared  openly  to  omit  it.  But 
instead  of  choosing  from  among  these  damsels  that 
pleased  his  eye,  and  selling  the  rest  as  slaves,  he  con- 
tented himself  with  selecting  one,  and  dowered  such 
others  who  were  poor,  and  married  them  to  his  Moors. 

In  his  harem  he  also  maintained  many  Christian 
captives  as  hostages  for  the  land.  But  they  were  treated 
not  only  with  respect,  but  with  luxury,  within  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  lovely  little  Fati'o  de  las  Mmlecas — from  all 
time  devoted  to  the  harem — the  loveliest  sheet  of  snowy 
lace-work  ever  beheld.  Not  a  speck  of  colour  on  the 
pure  stone;  not  a  badge  or  motto,  only  tiers  of  open 
galleries,  latticed  in  white. 

If  ever  these  dark  Eastern  beauties  return  to  haunt 
the  glimpses  of  the  moon,  it  is  surely  in  this  paiio  their 
dazzling  forms  will  linger! 

Here  they  lived  a  pleasant  life,  plied  their  fingers 
in  rich  embroidery  copied  from  the  looms  of  Damascus, 
danced  ole  or  cachucha,  to  castanets,  or  sang  to  lute 
and  cyther  those  wild  malaguenas,  with  long  sad  notes. 

Many  were  even  contented  with  their  lot.  But  all 
followed  with  longing  eyes  the  graceful  form  of  the 
young  Emir,  putting  forth  their  charms  to  attract  his 
roving  eyes. 

"Beware,  O  my  son,  of  the  seductions  of  love,"  had 
written  Mousa  to  his  son.  "It  is  an  idle  passion  which 
enfeebles  the  heart  and  blinds  the  judgment." 

And  so  his  discreet  cousin  Ayub  continually  repeated, 
but,  spite  of  these  warnings,  Abdul-asis  often  solaced 
himself  in  the  company  of  the  fair,  specially  among  the 
Christian   captives,   who  were  both  beautiful  and  well- 

Old  Court  Life  in  Spain.  /.  9 


130  OLD    COURT  LIFE  LV   SPAL^J. 

educated.  Indeed,  it  was  here  the  lonely  young  Emir 
spent  his  happiest  hours,  as  the  moon  mounted  into  the 
realm  of  blue  and  star  after  star  shone  out  to  be 
doubled  in  the  basins  of  the  fountains,  the  murmur  of 
innumerable  jets  and  streamlets  falling  on  the  ear. 

It  was  peace,  absolute  peace,  such  as  comes  to 
those  balancing  on  the  bosom  of  the  sea,  or  on  desert 
plains,  or  in  the  mystery  of  deep  forests,  or  in  the 
grave ! 

One  night  as  his  eyes  range  unconsciously  into  the 
gloom,  he  is  startled  to  find  that  he  is  not  alone. 

Deep  within  a  thicket  of  aloes  the  lines  of  a  woman's 
form  are  visible,  seated  upon  the  ground. 

"Who  can  this  be?"  he  asks  himself  with  breathless 
haste.  "I  cannot  recall  having  seen  her  before,  either 
in  the  harem  or  among  the  captives." 

Yet  it  was  a  form,  once  seen,  not  to  be  forgotten. 
Her  dark  hair  hung  like  a  cloud  over  her  shoulders, 
and  her  eyes,  as  she  turned  them  upwards,  catching  a 
ray  of  moonlight,  shone  out  like  stars. 

"Who  is  she?"  And  Abdul-asis  rises  softly,  the 
better  to  observe  her.  "Yes,  she  is  matchless,  but  that 
sadness  is  not  natural.  Her  attitude,  her  movements 
are  languid  and  full  of  pain.  Her  hands  lie  weary. 
She  avoids  her  companions.  What  can  it  mean?  Some 
tale  of  deep  sorrow  is  shut  up  in  her  soul.  She  is  under 
my  roof  and  I  am  ignorant  of  her  hfe.  I  will  at  once 
address  her." 

For  some  minutes  he  stood  silent,  his  eyes  wander- 
ing over  the  many  beauties  which  disclosed  themselves 
to   his   gaze;    but,    to   his    astonishment,    as   he    looked 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  I3I 

closer,  he  perceived  from  the  dark  oHve  of  her  skin  that 
the  stranger  must  be  an  Egyptian  or  a  Moor. 

At  last,  moved  by  a  singular  emotion,  he  addressed  her. 

"Who  are  you,  gentle  lady?"  he  asks,  his  naturally 
sweet  voice  tuned  to  its  softest  accents.  "Why  do  you 
sit  alone?  confide  to  me  your  grief" 

"Death  alone  can  end  it,"  is  her  reply. 

"Nay,"  whispers  Abdul-asis,  in  a  voice  melting  with 
pity,  "fair  one,  seek  not  to  sacrifice  that  which  Allah 
has  made  so  perfect.  The  very  sense  of  loveliness  is 
yours.  Let  it  be  mine.  As  the  houris  of  Paradise  dwell 
under  the  shadow  of  the  Great  Angel's  wings,  so,  lady, 
shall  you  dwell  under  mine.  I  am  Lord  of  Andalusia. 
Power  is  in  my  hands.  Speak  to  me,"  and  he  drew 
nearer  and  touched  the  tips  of  her  henna-stained  fingers. 
"Have  faith  in  me."  If  he  had  dared  he  would  have 
clasped  her  to  his  heart.  Never  had  the  veiled  fair 
ones  of  the  harem  moved  him  so. 

With  his  lustrous  eyes  fixed  on  hers  he  waited  for 
an  answer,  or  at  least  for  some  sign  that  she  was  not 
displeased.     None  came. 

Now  this  to  Abdul-asis  was  a  new  development  of 
woman  which  served  only  to  heighten  the  ardour  of  his 
sudden  passion.  Opposition  proverbially  is  a  spur  to 
love,  and  now  the  old  axiom  operated  in  full  force  upon 
one  who  had  never  known  repulse. 

Again  he  assayed  to  clasp  her  delicate  fingers  within 
his  own  and  gently  draw  her  towards  him. 

"Light  of  my  life,"  he  murmurs,  "speak!"  In  vain 
— the  lady  replied  only  by  her  sobs.  Nor  was  it  in  the 
power  of  Abdul-asis  to  make  her  speak. 

At  length — was  it  the  languid  beauty  of  the  night, 

9* 


132  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAL^. 

the  power  of  the  moon,  great  in  the  annals  of  unspoken 
love,  or  some  occult  mystery  communicated  to  her  by 
his  touch, — a  rosy  bloom  rose  on  her  dark  cheeks  and, 
withdrawing  her  hand  from  his  ardent  clasp,  she  sud- 
denly unlocks  the  mystery  of  her  coral  lips. 

"I  am  Egilona,"  she  whispers,  as  if  she  feared  to 
confide  the  name  to  the  night  air;  "once  wife  of  Don 
Roderich  and  Queen  of  Spain." 

Words  cannot  paint  the  amazement  of  Abdul-asis. 
That  the  beautiful  stranger,  known  to  have  become  a 
captive  after  the  defeat  of  the  Guadalete,  should  be 
dwelling  within  his  Alcazar,  unknown  to  himself,  seems 
too  astonishing  to  comprehend!  That  he  too,  uncon- 
sciously, should  have  presumed  to  approach  her  with  the 
facile  dalliance  of  love  grieves  his  generous  soul. 

All  which  he  endeavours  to  express  to  Egilona  in  the 
most  eloquent  language  he  could  command,  while  he 
bends  the  knee  before  her  as  a  vassal  to  his  queen. 

Then  he  sighed.  Her  royal  position  placed  an  in- 
superable barrier  between  them.  Besides,  the  possession 
of  such  an  illustrious  captive  ought,  he  felt,  at  once  to 
be  notified  to  the  Caliph  at  Damascus. 

"Could  he  do  so?"  he  asked  himself.  "Could 
he  run  the  risk  of  losing  her?  No!  a  thousand  times 
no!" 

Chance  or  fate  had  thrown  her  in  his  way.  She 
was  actually  a  slave  in  his  harem.  There  she  should 
remain  unless  she  herself  wished  otherwise. 

Fortunately  that  tiresome  person,  the  discreet  Ayub, 
knew  nothing  about  her.  His  reproaches,  at  all  events, 
were  not  to  be  encountered.  Possibly! — ah!  possibly — 
a  tender  project  formed  itself  in  his  brain.     Would  she. 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  1 33 

the  wife  of  the  royal  Goth,  consent  to  share  an  Emir's 
throne? 

But  at  that  moment  he  was  too  much  overcome 
and  self-diffident  to  allow  himself  to  pursue  so  roseate 
a  dream. 

Calling  together  his  guards,  hidden  about  the  garden, 
but  ever  present  near  his  person,  Abdul-asis,  with  a  heart 
torn  by  conflicting  emotions,  conducts  Egilona  through 
the  marble  courts  to  the  Patio  de  las  Munecas. 

All  that  the  tenderest  love  could  dictate  was  showered 
upon  her  by  the  amorous  Emir.  She  lived  in  the 
royal  apartments,  and  a  special  train  of  slaves,  eunuchs 
and  women  attended  upon  her.  Before  the  gold-em- 
broidered draperies  of  her  door  turbaned  guards  stood 
day  and  night,  holding  naked  scimitars.  Her  table  was 
served  with  the  same  luxury  as  that  of  a  sultana.  When 
she  went  abroad  into  the  streets  of  Seville  she  rode  on 
a  beautiful  palfrey,  caparisoned  with  silken  fringes,  a 
silver  bridle  and  stirrup,  and  a  bit  of  gold.  At  the 
sound  of  the  tinkling  bells  which  hung  about  the  harness, 
all  who  meet  her  prostrate  themselves  to  the  earth,  as 
though  the  Emir  himself  were  passing.  Even  the  muezzin, 
ringing  out  the  hour  of  prayer  from  the  galleries  of  the 
Giralda,  is  commanded  to  pronounce  a  blessing  on  her 
head. 

Such  a  complete  change  in  the  life  of  Abdul-asis 
could  not  but  arouse  the  wrath  of  the  discreet  Ayub. 
Numberless  were  the  times  he  tried  to  waylay  him,  al- 
ways ineffectually  however,  for  the  Emir  gave  orders  he 
was  not  to  be  admitted. 

One  day  they  did  meet  in  the  outer  Patio  de  las 


134  ^^^  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

Bandieras  (where  now  the  superb  portal  of  Don  Pedro 
blazes  in  the  sun),  just  as  Abdul-asis  was  mounting  his 
horse  for  the  chase. 

"Hold,  my  cousin  and  lord,"  cries  Ayub,  laying  hold 
of  his  bridle.  "Tarry  a  while,  I  pray  you,  for  the  sake 
of  our  kinship.  Am  I  a  dog,  that  you  should  drive  me 
with  kicks  and  imprecations  from  your  door?" 

"Far  from  me  be  such  a  thought,"  repHes  Abdul- 
asis,  colouring.  "No  one  thinks  better  of  you  than  L 
But,  my  cousin,  permit  me  now  to  depart.  Another 
time  we  will  pursue  the  subject." 

"Bear  with  me  now  awhile  rather,"  cries  Ayub,  de- 
taining him  by  the  folds  of  his  embroidered  robe.  "O 
Abdul-asis,  remember  the  words  of  your  father:  'Beware, 
my  son,  of  the  seductions  of  love.  It  renders  the  mighty 
weak  and  makes  slaves  of  princes.' " 

The  colour  on  the  face  of  the  Emir  deepens  into  a 
flush  of  wrath.  He  was  weary  of  hearing  these  words 
ever  repeated — yet  he  kept  silence. 

"Time  was,  my  cousin,"  continues  the  discreet  Ayub, 
"when  you  Hstened  to  my  words,  and  all  went  well. 
Now,  for  the  sake  of  a  strange  woman,  a  slave,  a  captive, 
you  are  bartering  your  kingdom." 

At  this  coarse  allusion  to  the  royal  Egilona  Abdul- 
asis  could  scarcely  resist  the  temptation  of  enlightening 
Ayub  as  to  her  real  condition,  but  he  forbore. 

"It  is  my  right,  O  Ayub,  to  love  whom  I  choose," 
he  answers  coldly,  again  preparing  to  mount  his  horse. 

Again  Ayub  arrests  him,  and,  forgetting  all  respect 
in  the  heat  of  his  argument,  fairly  shouts  in  his  ear, — 

"Yes,  O  son  of  the  great  Mousa,  but  not  like  that 
glorious   warrior.     Yes,   free   to  love   a  whole  tribe  of 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  I  35 

slaves  if  you  please,  gather  all  the  beauties  from  the 
corners  of  the  earth,  the  houris  of  Paradise,  if  you  can 
get  them,  but  you  have  no  right  to  sacrifice  your  throne 
and  bring  ruin  on  your  race." 

To  this  torrent  of  reproach  Abdul-asis  answers  not 
a  word.  Steadying  by  his  touch  and  voice  the  ex- 
asperated horse,  which  had  now  become  restive  under 
the  delay,  as  if  sharing  in  the  irritation  of  his  master, 
Abdul-asis  surveys  his  cousin  as  if  to  demand  what 
more  abuse  he  had  in  store — a  look  and  manner  which 
only  exasperated  Ayub  all  the  more. 

"What  kind  of  a  sovereign  are  you,"  he  continues, 
in  the  same  shrill  voice,  which  echoed  round  the  court 
and  could  not  fail  to  reach  the  ears  of  the  guards  and 
eunuchs,  however  unmoved  their  countenances  might 
remain,  "who  pretend  to  have  no  time  to  administer 
justice  in  the  Gate  as  your  Moorish  ancestors  did?  Who 
neglect  to  review  your  troops  in  the  great  plains  about 
the  city  and  to  take  counsel  upon  the  affairs  of  state 
with  the  chiefs  and  counsellors  sent  hither  by  the 
Caliph?  Can  you  expect  that  he  will  continue  you  as 
governor,  when  the  report  of  your  acts  comes  to  his 
ears?  With  you  will  fall  your  father  Mousa  and  your 
brothers  in  Africa.  Who  is  this  witch  who  has  over- 
looked you?  Send  her  away,  or  by  the  name  of  Allah 
I  will  no  longer  screen  you!" 

Even  the  discreet  Ayub  paused  here  for  lack  of 
breath,  and  the  young  Emir,  quickly  vaulting  into  the 
saddle,  rides  off  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  followed  by  his  at- 
tendants. 

Yet,  spite  of  these  stinging  words,  his  passion  for 
Egilona  was  so  consuming,  that  although  he  felt  their 


136  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

truth  and  that  he  was  entering  upon  a  career  full  of 
danger,  he  could  neither  pause  before  it  was  too  late, 
nor  turn  back  altogether. 

Day  and  night  her  image  pursues  him.  Spite  of 
all  the  warnings  of  Ayub,  who,  having  once  broken  the 
ice,  never  ceases  his  threats  and  reproaches,  every  hour 
is  devoted  to  her.  In  the  shade  of  the  Alcazar  gardens, 
on  the  river  Guadalquivir,  where  they  float  in  a  silver 
barge  with  perfumed  sails,  under  canopies  of  cloth  of 
gold  and  silver;  within  the  gaudy  halls,  sculptured  with 
glowing  panels  of  arabesque,  painted  roofs  and  dazzling 
dados;  and  in  the  Banos,  full  of  breezes  from  the  river 
and  currents  of  free  mountain  air,  planted  with  such 
shrubs  and  herbs  as  are  used  to  scent  the  water,  he  is 
ever  at  her  side. 

So  well  did  Egilona  love  the  Banos,  which  reminded 
her  of  her  African  home,  that  she  was  wont  to  say  to 
her  favourite  slave,  the  same  dark-skinned  girl  from 
Barbary  who  had  followed  her  from  Toledo,  "When  I 
am  dead,  Zora,  bury  me  here." 

Yet  all  this  time  Egilona  had  never  opened  her 
heart  to  Abdul-asis.  Nor,  eager  as  he  was  to  know  her 
history,  had  he  ventured  further  to  urge  her,  so  great 
was  his  respect. 

At  length,  of  her  own  accord,  she  unveiled  the 
mystery. 

"Think  not,  O  noblest  of  Moors,**  she  says,  in  a  voice 
so  soft  it  seemed  to  lull  the  agitation  of  his  heart,  "that 
I  am  insensible  to  your  devotion.  I  dare  not  question 
my  own  heart." 

"My  love,  my  sultana!"  is  all  that  he  could  answer, 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  1 37 

casting  himself  on  the  earth  before  her.  "Happy  destiny 
that  I  was  born  to  be  your  slave!" 

Egilona  at  once  raised  him,  and  entreated  him  to  sit 
beside  her. 

"No,  Abdul-asis,  it  is  not  within  the  power  of  woman 
to  resist  you.  My  heart  has  long  been  yours.  But," 
and  she  sighs,  and  big  tears  gather  in  her  mild  eyes 
and  drop  one  by  one  upon  the  hand  Abdul-asis  held 
clasped  in  his,  "I  fear  that  with  my  love  I  bring  you  an 
evil  destiny.  Remember  the  end  of  Roderich.  Can  I, 
oh,  can  I  sacrifice  you  to  the  chances  of  the  dark  fate 
that  pursues  all  who  love  me?" 

The  face  of  the  Emir  grew  pale  as  he  gazed  at  her. 
Spite  of  himself,  an  icy  hand  seemed  to  touch  his  heart 
and  chill  it  into  stone.  These  were  the  warnings  of  the 
discreet  Ayub  from  her  own  lips. 

Did  ruin  really  lie  in  those  matchless  eyes?  Was 
that  pure  chiselled  face  indeed  the  messenger  of  evil? 
A  rising  wave  of  passion  cast  these  sinister  forebodings 
from  him,  and,  with  a  calm  and  steady  voice,  he  an- 
swers,— 

"But  why,  my  queen,  should  you,  the  wife  of  Rode- 
rich, be  answerable  for  his  doom?  It  is  said  that  the 
Gothic  king  tempted  the  infernal  powers  when  he  forced 
open  the  portals  of  the  Tower  of  Hercules  and  let  forth 
the  demons  confined  there  upon  the  earth." 

"That  is  true,"  answers  Egilona,  "and  the  rash  act 
was  doubtless  the  cause  of  his  death.  Still  the  mis- 
fortunes which  cling  to  me  seem  to  have  led  on  to  his. 
Had  he  not  loved  me  he  might  have  married  the 
daughter  of  Don  Julian." 

"And  what  misfortunes  has  my  Egilona  encountered? 


138  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

You  forget  I  know  not  who  you  are,  or  how  you  came 
here." 

Then  she  recounted  to  him  her  royal  birth,  and 
how  from  childhood  she  had  been  affianced  to  the  son 
of  the  King  of  Tunis;  the  history  of  the  storm  which 
threw  her  on  the  coast  of  Spain;  the  Alcaide  of  Denia 
(now  Malaga),  upon  whom  she  had  made  so  favourable 
an  impression.  (Here  the  enamoured  Emir  drew  a  deep 
sigh,  and  pressed  his  lips  upon  her  hand  as  she  lay 
half-recHning  upon  a  pile  of  gold-worked  cushions.) 

"Again  I  wore  the  bridal  robes,"  she  continues, 
"which  I  had  on  when  I  was  shipwrecked,  as  I  awaited 
Don  Roderich." 

Here  was  a  pause,  Egilona  drops  her  eyes  and  is 
silent.  The  veins  on  the  forehead  of  Abdul-asis  suddenly 
swell  with  agony.  Every  word  she  utters  plunges  a 
dagger  in  his  breast.  '-This  was  the  man  she  loved," 
he  told  himself.  "By  the  Prophet,  she  will  never  be  to 
me  as  she  was  to  him— dog  of  a  Christian!" 

Meanwhile,  guessing  his  thoughts,  a  thousand  blushes 
suffuse  the  cheeks  of  poor  Egilona  and  dye  her  olive 
skin  with  a  ruddy  brilliance.  "What  could  I  do?"  she 
asks  in  a  plaintive  voice.  "I  had  broken  through  the 
bonds  of  eastern  custom;  I  had  despised  the  laws  of 
the  harem;  I  had  stood  face  to  face  with  man.  The 
beauty  and  variety  of  the  outer  world  was  known  to  me. 
The  visits  of  Don  Roderich — " 

"Say  no  more,  my  queen!"  exclaims  the  generous- 
hearted  Abdul-asis,  ashamed  of  his  jealous  weakness. 
"Could  anyone  approach  you  without  love?  I  guess  the 
conclusion." 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  1 39 

When  the  discreet  Ayub  was  informed  of  the  pur- 
pose of  his  consin  to  wed  the  Gothic  Queen,  he  covered 
his  head  and  sat  in  sackcloth  and  ashes.  In  this  un- 
becoming guise  he  forced  himself  into  the  presence  of 
the  Emir. 

"Are  you  mad?"  he  cries,  "O  son  of  Mousa?  Re- 
member the  words  of  your  great  father,  bravest  among 
the  chiefs  of  Damascus:  'Beware  of  love,  my  son.  It  is 
a  passion — '  " 

"Enough,  enough,"  answers  Abdul-asis,  rising  from 
the  divan  on  which  he  had  thrown  himself,  as  the 
spectacle  his  cousin  presented  had  moved  him  to  laughter, 
"I  have  heard  these  words  before." 

"And  you  will  hear  them  again,  O  son  of  my  kins- 
man. I  will  not  forsake  you,  by  Allah!  for  his  sake, 
nor  give  you  over  to  the  evil  genius  who  possesses 
you." 

But  the  wrongs  of  Ayub,  however  terrible,  melted  as 
wax  before  the  fierce  fire  of  the  Emir's  love. 

His  nuptials  with  Egilona  were  celebrated  with  great 
pomp.  Nor  did  possession  cool  his  ardour.  He  lived 
but  for  her.  He  consulted  with  her  in  all  the  affairs  of 
his  government,  and  rejected  the  counsels  of  the  discreet 
though  most  troublesome  cousin. 

For  a  time  no  evil  consequences  ensued,  and  the 
fears  of  Ayub  were  almost  lulled.  Yet  who  can  resist 
his  fate? 

Reposing  one  day  in  a  gorgeous  chamber  of  the 
Alcazar —  (it  is  now  called  the  room  of  Maria  de  Padilla, 
but  it  was  then  known  as  the  Hall  of  the  Sultana) — 
Egilona  drew  from  under  the  folds  of  her  mantle  a 
circlet  of  gold. 


140  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

"See,  love,"  said  she,  "the  crown  of  Roderlch  the 
Goth.  Let  me  place  it  on  your  brow.  It  will  become 
you  well." 

Holding  up  as  she  spoke  a  steel  mirror  attached  to 
her  girdle  by  a  rope  of  pearls,  she  calls  upon  him  to 
admire  the  majesty  of  his  appearance. 

With  a  sigh  he  looks  at  himself,  the  crown  placed 
on  the  folds  of  his  turban,  then  put  it  from  him  and, 
like  Caesar,  sighed  that  it  could  not  be  his. 

"My  love,"  says  Egilona,  replacing  it,  "the  wearer 
of  a  crown  is  a  sovereign  indeed.  Believe  me,  the 
Christians  are  right;  it  sanctifies  the  rule." 

A  second  time,  like  Caesar,  Abdul-asis  put  the  crown 
from  him.  Yet  did  his  fingers  linger  on  the  rim,  while 
he  endeavoured  to  explain  to  Egilona  that,  as  a  Moslem,  she 
must  not  urge  him  to  go  against  the  custom  of  his  nation. 

Still  Egilona  insists,  her  soft  fingers  clasped  in  his, 
her  tempting  lips  resting  on  his  own. 

"There  has  been  no  real  king  in  Spain,"  she  urges, 
"without  a  crown.  I  pray  you,  dear  husband,  do  not 
refuse  me." 

At  first  it  was  only  worn  in  private,  but  the  fact  was 
too  strange  not  to  be  noised  abroad.  The  Moorish 
damsels  in  attendance  on  Egilona  and  the  guards  and 
eunuchs  which  fill  an  Eastern  Court  bore  the  news  from 
mouth  to  mouth  as  a  strange  wonderment. 

"The  Emir  not  only  has  wedded  a  Christian  wife, 
but  he  wears  the  Gothic  crown,"  is  whispered  in  Seville. 
"He  seeks  to  rule  us  as  Roderich  did."  To  this  was 
added  by  the  many-tongued  voice  of  calumny,  "that  not 
only  Egilona  had  induced  him  to  become  a  king,  but, 
oh  horror  of  horrors,  that  he  was  surely  a  Christian!" 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  I4I 

"By  the  head  of  the  Prophet,  I  swear  it  is  a  lie!" 
cried  the  discreet  Ayub  to  the  ancient  counsellors  Mousa 
had  placed  about  his  son,  who,  in  their  long  dark  robes, 
gathered  round  him  in  dismay.  "Not  a  day  passes  but 
Abdul-asis  may  be  seen  offering  up  his  prayers  in  the 
Zeca,  his  face  turned  towards  Mecca.  Ask  the  muezzin - 
at  the  Giralda  if  it  be  not  so.  Five  times  a  day  does 
he  prostrate  himself;  and  as  to  purifying,  there  is  not 
water  enough  in  Seville  to  serve  him." 

"But  the  crown,  most  powerful  Vizir,  does  not  the 
Emir  wear  a  crown?" 

At  this  Ayub,  feigning  a  sudden  fit  of  coughing, 
turned  aside.  "I  have  never  seen  it,"  he  answers  at 
last;  "I  swear  I  have  never  seen  it." 

"That  may  very  likely  be,"  is  the  answer;  "but  it  is 
well  known,  and  for  a  Moslem  to  wear  a  Christian  crown 
is  against  the  laws  of  the  Koran.  Allah  Achbar!  we 
have  spoken."  So,  covering  their  faces  with  their  robes, 
as  those  that  mourn  the  dead,  they  departed  from  the 
presence  of  Ayub. 

Enemies  were  not  wanting  to  Abdul-asis  in  Seville, 
his  own,  and  those  who  hated  him  as  the  son  of  the 
famous  Mousa. 

These  wrote  hasty  letters  to  Damascus,  accusing  him 
not  only  of  detaining  captives  of  price,  but  as  seeking  to 
establish  the  Gothic  kingdom  by  right  of  Egilona, 
acknowledged  as  their  queen  by  all  the  Christians. 

Now  Suleiman,  a  new  Cahph,  was  on  the  throne, 
and  it  so  happened  that  he  cherished  a  deep  hatred 
against  Mousa,  whom  he  had  divested  of  all  his  high 
commands  in  favour  of  the  One-Eyed,  who  had  brought 
rich  spoil  to  Damascus. 


142  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

The  Caliph  waited  for  no  proofs,  he  wanted  none. 
It  was  enough  that  Abdul-asis  was  accused,  and  that  his 
death  would  be  the  heaviest  punishment  he  could  inflict 
on  the  unfortunate  Mousa. 

When  the  fatal  scroll  was  laid  before  Ayub  the 
parchment  dropped  from  his  hand. 

"Allah  is  great!"  cried  he,  as  soon  as  words  came 
to  him.  "It  is  known  of  all  men  I  have  taken  no  part 
in  my  cousin's  marriage;  rather  that  I  have  always  op- 
posed it.  Beware,  said  I,  of  the  seductions  of  love. 
Avoid  the  strange  woman  upon  whose  face  is  written  an 
evil  fate.  As  long  as  I  could  I  counselled  him  well,  as 
I  had  promised  his  father.  Now  the  Caliph's  commands 
must  be  obeyed,  else  we  shall  all  lose  our  heads,  which 
will  not  keep  that  of  Abdul-asis  on  his  shoulders." 

Thus  spoke  Ayub,  discreet  to  the  last.  As  long  as 
he  could  shield  the  Emir  he  had  done  so  loyally. 
Now  that  he  must  die  he  hastened  to  assist  at  his 
downfall. 

The  assassins  came  upon  them  as  they  sat  together 
beneath  a  purple  awning,  drawn  from  tree  to  tree. 
Four  naked  Nubians,  black  as  night,  with  four  naked 
scimitars.  So  lightly  fell  their  bare  feet  as  they  glided 
behind  them,  they  looked  like  some  hideous  vision  of 
the  night. 

Before  the  dawn  of  day,  Abdul-asis  and  Egilona 
had  risen,  disturbed  by  the  noise  of  the  populace 
without.  No  one  would  tell  them  what  it  meant.  While 
the  Emir  was  preparing  to  go  himself  to  the  walls, 
to    inquire   if  Egilona   had  returned  from  praying  in  a 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  I43 

little  chapel  she  had  caused  to  be  erected  within  the 
limits  of  the  harem,  their  fate  came  to  them.  Together 
they  fell  under  the  cruel  steel,  together  their  bodies  lay 
exposed  upon  the  stones. 

The  dogs  of  the  palace  would  have  mangled  them, 
but  that  some  friendly  hand  gathered  them  up  and 
interred  them  secretly  in  one  of  the  many  squares  of  the 
garden. 

Where  they  lie,  no  one  knows,  or  if  it  was  the  dis- 
creet Ayub  who  buried  them.  But  as  the  time  of  the 
year  comes  round  when  they  suffered,  in  the  hour  pre- 
ceding dawn,  stifled  sighs  and  groans  are  heard  in  the 
angles  of  the  walls,  and  a  universal  tremor  runs  through 
the  space;  although  the  outer  air  is  still,  a  sudden 
tempest  seems  to  rustle,  the  fan  palms  quiver  as  if 
shaken  by  unseen  hands,  the  pale-leaved  citrons  bow 
their  heads  to  a  mysterious  blast,  clouds  of  white  blos- 
soms cover  the  earth  like  snow,  and  the  leaves  of  the 
yellow  jasmine  fly  as  if  with  wings. 

Then  a  clash  of  scimitars  breaks  the  silence,  the 
shadowy  form  of  a  stately  lady  floats  across  the  pave- 
ment, closely  followed  by  the  figure  of  a  Moor,  who 
sighs  and  wrings  his  hands,  gliding  on  into  the  thick- 
ness of  the  woods,  when  a  dark  cloud  gathers  and  they 
disappear. 

CHAPTER    XI. 
THE  MOORS  AT  CORDOBA. 

At  Cordoba  we  come  upon  the  full  splendour  of 
the  Moors,  a  whole  world  of  chivalry,  jongUrie,  magic 
and  song,  from  the  old  East,  their  home.     What  noble 


144  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

devotion  to  their  race!  What  unalterable  faith!  What 
generous  courage  in  life,  and  silent  constancy  in  death! 
What  knowledge,  could  we  but  grasp  it! 

We  know  but  what  is  left  to  us  of  their  outward  life 
in  Andalusia  and  Granada.  Their  exquisite  sense  of 
proportion  and  colour,  in  palaces  vermilion  walled  and 
vocal  with  many  waters;  the  massive  grandeur  of 
barbicans  of  defence,  the  sensuous  charm  of  lace- 
covered  chambers  and  gigantic  leap  of  arch,  tower  and 
minaret,  destined  to  live  as  their  mark  for  ever. 

Their  whole  existence  in  Spain  is  a  romance  ano- 
malous but  dazzling.  A  nation  within  a  nation,  never 
amalgamated.  A  people  without  a  country;  a  wave  of 
the  great  Moslem  invasion  cast  into  Europe;  a  brilliant 
phantasmagoria,  various  and  rare! 

The  Moors  took  no  soHd  root  in  Spain  as  the 
Saxons  in  England  or  the  Arabs  in  Sicily,  but  lived  as 
an  exotic  race,  divided  from  the  Christians  and  from 
the  Jews  by  impassable  barriers  of  religious  customs 
and  laws;  their  occupation  but  a  long  chivalric  struggle 
for  a  foothold  in  the  land  they  had  gained  but  never 
conquered. 

Not  all  the  fiery  valour  of  the  African  was  proof 
against  the  obstinate  resistance  of  the  Goths.  Never 
was  defence  more  complete!  In  the  midst  of  apparent 
victory  loomed  defeat! 

A  new  era  opens  in  Cordoba,  with  its  million  in- 
habitants and  three  hundred  mosques,  in  the  reign  of 
the  Caliph  Abdurraman,  of  the  race  of  the  Ummayha, 
who  overthrew  the  rival  princes  sent  by  the  Sultan  of 
Damascus. 

After  him   from  a.d.   756  to  a.d.  iooo,   ten  inde- 


OLD    COURT  LIFE   IN  SPAIN.  1 45 

pendent  sultans  reigned  in  Cordoba,  their  wealth  and 
luxury  like  the  record  of  a  tale. 

Most  notable  among  these  were  three  other  Ab- 
durramans,  Hakin,  surnamed  "the  bookworm,"  Hisham, 
and  Hazin,  not  to  forget  the  great  Sultan  and  states- 
man Almanzor,  a  Moorish  Lorenzo  da  Medici,  collect- 
ing books  all  over  the  world,  and  drawing  learned  men 
to  his  court  even  from  remote  Britain. 

While  the  north,  in  perpetual  warfare,  was  plunged 
in  the  darkness  of  the  Middle  Ages,  solid  learning,  poetry 
and  elegant  literature  charmed  the  mind  of  the  enlightened 
Moors,  the  pioneers  of  civilisation  in  Europe. 

At  Cordoba  Averroes,  the  great  Grecian  scholar, 
translated  and  expounded  Aristotle.  Ben  Zaid  and 
Abdulmander  wrote  histories  of  the  people  at  Malaga. 
Ibn  el  Baal  searched  the  mountains  and  plains  to  per- 
fect a  knowledge  of  botany;  the  Jew  Tudela  was  the 
successor  of  Galen  and  Hippocrates;  Albucaris  is  re- 
membered as  a  notable  surgeon,  some  of  whose  opera- 
tions coincide  with  modern  practice;  and  Al  Rasi  and 
his  school  studied  chemistry  and  rhetoric. 

Not  only  at  Cordoba,  but  at  Seville,  and  later  at 
Granada,  colleges  and  schools  were  endowed,  and 
libraries  founded  in  which  the  higher  sciences  were 
taught,  which  drew  the  erudite  of  the  Moslem  world 
from  all  parts  of  the  globe,  and  became  the  resort  of 
Christian  students  anxious  to  instruct  themselves  in 
superior  knowledge. 

And  Christian  knights  came  also  to  perfect  them- 
selves in  chivalric  fashions  and  martial  exercises,  as  well 
as  to  master  the  graceful  evolutions  of  the  "tilt  of  reeds" 
in  the  tourneys  of  the  Moors. 

Old  Court  Life  in  Spain.   I.  lO 


146  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

From  the  court  of  the  first  Abdurraman  came  ''la 
gay  a  ciencia,"  poetic  discussions  of  love  and  chivalry- 
transplanted  later  to  the  Court  of  Provence. 

In  architecture  no  building  that  ever  was  erected 
can  compare  to  the  elegance  of  his  Mesquita  (come 
down  to  us  almost  entire)  as  a  monument  of  the  taste 
and  culture  of  the  age.  The  most  mystic  and  astound- 
ing of  temples,  with  innumerable  aisles  of  double  horse- 
shoe arches,  suspended  like  ribbons  in  mid-air,  resting 
on  pillars  of  jasper,  pavonazzo,  porphyry,  and  verde 
antique  crossing  and  re-crossing  each  other  in  a  giddy 
maze  of  immeasurable  distances,  red,  yellow,  green  and 
white,  dazzling  the  eye  in  a  very  rainbow  of  colour! 

No  windows  are  visible,  and  the  light,  weird  and 
grim,  comes  as  from  a  cave  peopled  by  demons;  no 
central  space  at  all,  but  vistas  of  endless  arcades,  which 
for  a  time  the  eye  follows  assiduously,  then  turns  con- 
fused, and  the  brain  reels. 

Deep  hidden  in  the  heart  of  the  temple  is  the  throne 
or  macsurah,  a  marvel  of  embroidered  stone,  where  the 
Sultan  takes  his  seat.  Here  the  Koran  is  read  in  the 
pale  light  of  scented  tapers  and  torches,  and  those  ecstatic 
visions  evoked  by  the  Faithful  of  a  sensual  paradise  of 
dark-haired  Houris. 

Opposite  is  the  Zeca,  or  holiest  of  holies,  turned 
towards  Mecca,  where  the  gorgeous  decorations  of  the 
East  blend  with  Byzantine  mosaics  of  vivid  colours  on 
a  gold  ground.  A  most  lovely  shrine,  a  great  marble 
conch-shell  for  the  roof,  the  sides  dazzling  with  burnished 
gold,  and  round  and  round,  deep  in  the  pavement,  the 
footprints  of  centuries  of  pilgrims. 

Such  is  the  Mesquita  of  Cordoba  in  our  day,   the 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  1 47 

desecrated  shelter  of  an  old  faith,  a  sanctuary  rifled,  a 
mystery  revealed! 

But  how  glorious  in  the  time  of  the  great  Abdurra- 
man  when  the  blaze  of  a  thousand  coloured  lanterns, 
fed  with  perfumed  oil,  played  like  gems  upon  jewelled 
surfaces,  vases  and  censers  filled  with  musk  and  attar, 
making  the  air  heavy  with  fragrance,  golden  candelabras 
blazing  among  mosaics,  crescent  banners  floating  beside 
the  alminbar  or  pulpit,  where  green -turbaned  Al- 
muedans  mount  to  intone  the  Selan,  as  the  Sultan 
emerges  from  a  subterranean  passage  leading  from  the 
Alcazar,  treading  on  Persian  carpets  sown  with  jewels, 
to  take  his  place  on  a  golden  throne  within  the 
macsurah,  surrounded  by  swarthy  Africans,  bare-armed 
Berbers,  helmeted  knights  bristling  with  scimitars,  Numi- 
dians  with  fringed  head-bands  and  golden  armlets, 
superb  Emirs,  wandering  Kalendars,  who  live  by  magic, 
the  dervish  of  the  desert,  and  hoary  Imaums  in  full 
gathered  robes. 

Then  the  talismanic  words  are  heard  from  the 
open  galleries  of  the  Giralda  from  which  the  Muezzin 
calls  to  daily  prayer:  "There  is  no  God  but  Allah,  and 
Mahomet  is  his  prophet."  To  which  the  prostrate 
multitude  echoes  "God  is  great,"  each  one  striking  the 
pavement  with  his  forehead,  and  the  sonorous  chant 
answers  "Amen." 

When  Abdurraman  reigned  the  lonely  quarter  beyond 
the  Mesquita  swarmed  with  Alcazar,  Bazars,  Cuartos, 
Zacatines,  Bafios  and  Alamedas. 

Three  miles  to  the  north,  sheltered  under  the  green 


148  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

heights  of  the  Sierra  Morena,  rose  the  plaisance  of 
Medina-a-Zehra,  created  by  him.  A  congerie  of  kiosks 
and  pavilions  entered  by  gates  of  blue  and  yellow 
porcelain,  overtopping  woods  of  exotic  shrubs,  choice 
plants,  and  rare  fruit-trees  —  here  the  Safary  peach 
(nectarine)  was  first  ripened  in  Europe — divided  by  the 
fountains,  canals  and  fish-ponds  so  dear  to  the  Arab 
fancy.  Twelve  statues  in  pure  gold  set  with  precious 
stones  spouting  perfumed  water  within  a  patio  girt  in 
by  crystal  pillars. 

Hither  came  emirs,  ambassadors,  merchants  and  pil- 
grims, all  agreed  that  nothing  could  be  compared  to  these 
matchless  gardens.  And  besides  Ez-Zahra  there  were 
other  monuments,  which  have  all  disappeared  under  the 
mantle  of  green  turf  that  lines  the  banks  of  the  Gua- 
dalquivir. Not  a  stone  left  of  the  pavilion  of  Flowers, 
of  Lovers,  and  of  Content,  the  palace  of  the  Diadem,  evi- 
dently destined  foi^  the  royal  jewels,  and  another  called 
after  the  city  of  Damascus. 

About  were  many  noble  streets  and  plazas  with 
baths  and  mosques,  for  next  to  the  mosque  stood  the 
bath  in  credit  among  the  Moslem,  and  as  such  despised 
by  the  Christians  to  that  point,  that  after  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella  drove  the  Moors  out  of  Spain,  their  grandson, 
Philip  II.,  ordered  the  destruction  of  all  public  baths  as 
relics  of  Mahomedanism. 


CHAPTER    xn. 
ABDURRAMAN,   SULTAN  OF   CORDOBA. 

Aedurraman,  first  Sultan  of  Cordoba,  was  a  kindly- 
hearted  man,  with  none  of  the  traditional  cruelty  of  the 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  1 49 

Arab,  eloquent  in  speech,  and  of  a  quick  perception — 
quite  the  Cahph  of  Eastern  tales.  Never  in  repose,  never 
intrusting  the  care  of  his  kingdom  to  viziers,  intrepid  in 
battle,  terrible  in  anger  and  intolerant  of  opposition;  yet 
ready  to  follow  the  biers  of  his  subjects,  pray  over  the 
dead,  and  even  to  mount  the  pulpit  of  the  mosque  on 
Fridays  and  address  the  people. 

His  majestic  presence  and  dark,  commanding  face, 
lit  up  by  a  pair  of  penetrating  eyes,  shadowed  by  thick 
black  eyebrows,  inspired  fear  rather  than  love  in  those 
around  him,  and  though  it  was  said  of  him  "he  never 
forgot  a  friend,"  it  was  added,  "nor  ever  forgave  an 
enemy." 

As  he  passed  at  evening  alone  into  the  garden  of 
Ez-Zahra,  the  porphyry,  jasper  and  marble  of  the  pave- 
ment absorbed  by  the  intense  blue  of  the  sky — all  his 
attendants  fell  back.  His  brow  was  knit  with  thought, 
for  the  fame  of  the  victories  of  Charles  Martel  troubled 
him  sorely.  He  knew  that  in  knowledge  and  science 
the  Frankish  king  was  as  a  peasant  compared  to  him,  yet 
his  name  was  in  all  men's  mouths  as  the  conqueror  of 
the  Moors. 

Not  only  did  Charles  Martel,  after  the  victory  of 
Tours,  excel  him  in  renown,  but  the  remnant  of  the 
Goths,  driven  out  of  the  cities  of  Spain,  had  taken 
refuge  in  the  mountains  bordering  the  Bay  of  Biscay, 
among  the  caves  and  untrodden  defiles  of  the  Asturias, 
and,  small  and  insignificant  as  they  were,  still  defied  him. 

Just  and  generous  in  character,  the  Sultan  would 
have  gladly  drawn  to  him  this  patriotic  band  by  an 
equitable  rule,  if  they  would  have  submittrd;  but  the 
obstinate   endurance   of  the  Spaniard   was   never  more 


150  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN. 

displayed  than  in  the  fierce  determination  of  these  fugi- 
tives never  to  yield. 

Thinking  of  all  this,  Abdurraman  heaved  a  deep 
sigh.  His  soul  was  full  of  sympathy  for  the  brave 
Goths,  but,  as  Sultan,  he  was  bound  to  suppress  what 
was  in  fact  open  rebellion. 

Long  did  he  pace  slowly  up  and  down,  musing  in  a 
silence  broken  only  by  the  distant  click  of  the  castanets 
from  the  quarter  of  the  harem,  where  the  light  of  coloured 
lanterns  shone  out  athwart  huge  branches  of  magnolia 
and  pepper-trees. 

That  these  sounds  of  revelry  were  not  to  his  taste 
was  shown  by  the  disdainful  glance  he  cast  in  that 
direction,  and  a  certain  gathering  about  him  of  the  dark 
caftan  which  hung  from  his  shoulders. 

Turning  his  eyes  in  the  direction  of  one  of  the  many 
illuminated  kiosks  standing  out  clear  in  the  twilight,  he 
paused,  as  if  expecting  someone  to  appear. 

Nor  did  he  wait  long:  a  dark  figure  emerges  from 
the  gloom,  the  features  of  the  face  so  dusky  that  but  for 
the  general  outline  of  the  figure  it  might  have  passed 
unseen  as  a  phantom  of  the  night 

"Mahoun,"  says  the  Caliph,  sharply,  as  the  vizier 
approached  and,  prostrating  himself  on  the  earth,  awaited 
his  commands,  "stand  up  and  tell  me  what  tidings  from 
the  north." 

"By  the  Prophet,  O  Caliph,"  answers  Mahoun, 
crossing  his  arms  as  he  rose  to  his  feet,  and  bending 
his  supple  body  in  a  deep  salaam,  "tidings  of  many 
colours — good  and  bad." 

"Give  me  the  bad  first,  O  Vizier!  After  a  storm 
the  sun's  rays  shine  brightest.     Proceed." 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  I5I 

"Don  Pelayo,  the  Goth,  son  of  the  Christian  noble, 
Dux  of  Cantabria,  murdered  by  his  kinsman,"  continued 
the  vizier,  "or,  as  some  call  him,  Pelagius — for  these 
Gothic  dogs  much  affect  Roman  names — the  leader  of 
the  Christians,  has  disappeared.  Nor  can  the  cunning 
inquiries  of  Kerim,  whom  in  your  wisdom  you  have 
placed  as  governor  over  these  newly-conquered  provinces, 
obtain  any  record  of  where  he  has  gone.  Some  say  to 
the  French  Court  to  ask  succour  for  the  remnant  who 
still  cling  to  his  fortunes;  others  that  he  has  died  by 
treachery,  or  fallen  in  fight.  So  constant  were  these 
rumours,  O  Caliph,  that  the  Goths,  discouraged  by  his 
long  absence,  had  fallen  into  disunion;  the  wisest  (and 
they  are  few)  were  willing  to  submit  to  the  rule  of 
Kerim;  the  greater  part  (fools)  prepared  to  elect  the 
Gothic  Infanta  Onesinda,  his  sister,  as  queen — when  of 
a  sudden,  Pelayo  himself  returns,  and,  with  a  horde  of 
Christian  beggars  at  his  back,  raises  the  standard  of 
revolt  in  Galicia  near  Gijon." 

"What!"  cries  the  Caliph,  suddenly  interested,  "is 
Pelayo  the  youth,  cousin  of  Don  Roderich,  who  fought 
at  the  battle  of  the  Guadalete  close  to  his  chariot,  and 
never  left  him  until  he  himself  vanished  from  the  battle- 
field?    I  have  heard  of  Pelayo.     He  is  of  royal  birth." 

"The  same,  O  Caliph.  Grandson  of  King  Chindas- 
winto,  his  father,  murdered  by  that  unclean  beast  Witica, 
predecessor  of  Roderich.  Pelayo  ends  the  line  of  Gothic 
princes.  Kerim  despises  him  as  a  despicable  barbarian 
shut  up  on  a  mountain,  where  his  followers  die  of  hunger; 
they  have  no  food  but  herbs  and  honey  gathered  in  the 
rocks.     Let  not  my  Lord  regard  him." 

"Call  you  this  good  news,  O  Mahoun?     A  hero  is 


152  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN. 

ever  a  hero,  even  in  rags!  Though  he  is  my  enemy,  I 
respect  his  valour.  Had  Roderich  fought  with  like 
courage  in  the  defence  of  Spain,  we  might  now  be  eating 
dates  in  our  tents  under  our  native  palms.  The  courage 
of  the  chief  represents  the  spirit  of  the  nation,  as  the 
flash  of  the  lightning  precedes  the  thunderbolt.  One 
cannot  scathe  without  the  other." 

"But,  O  Caliph  of  the  Faithful,"  interrupts  the 
vizier,  again  prostrating  himself  to  the  ground,  "the 
good  news  is  yet  untold.  Pelayo's  sister,  Onesinda,  is 
now  in  our  hands, — Kerim,  the  Governor  of  Gijon,  has 
captured  her." 

A  smile  of  satisfaction  overspread  the  Caliph's  face. 
Then,  as  other  thoughts  seemed  to  gather  in  his  mind, 
he  raised  his  hand  and  thoughtfully  passes  it  across  the 
thick  black  curls  of  his  beard. 

"Surely  all  courtesy  has  been  used  towards  this 
royal  lady?  I  would  rather  that  Kerim  had  shown  his 
skill  in  overcoming  men.  Do  Mussulmen  wage  war  on 
women  and  children?  I  know  Kerim  as  a  valiant  leader 
in  the  fight,  but  I  misdoubt  much  his  courtesy  towards 
this  daughter  of  the  Goths.  Are  we  not  well-founded 
enough  in  Spain  to  spare  this  lady?" 

"Yes,  confined  within  the  strong  walls  of  your  harem. 
Make  her  your  Sultana,  O  Caliph,  she  will  be  free,  and, 
subdued  by  the  wisdom  of  your  lips,  will  bring  her 
countrymen  with  her;  otherwise  she  is  too  important  a 
hostage  to  surrender.  For  his  sister's  sake  Pelayo  him- 
self may  yield." 

"Never,  if  I  know  him,"  exclaims  Abdurraman, 
"while  the  fountain  of  life  flows  within  his  veins — never! 
Dishonour  not  the  noble  Goth  so  far.    To  turn  a  Chris- 


OLD    COURT   LIFE  IN   SPAIN.  153 

tian  maiden  into  a  slave  would  be  honour,  for  a  Gothic 
princess  a  sore  degradation.  Mahoun,  I  want  no  Sultana 
to  share  my  throne.  'Beware  of  the  wiles  of  women,' 
saith  the  sage.  By  the  help  of  the  Prophet,  I  will  still 
steer  clear.  But  that  this  noble  lady  shall  have  cause 
to  extol  the  courtesy  of  the  Moslem  is  my  com- 
mand." 

"How  then  shall  we  deal  with  her?"  asks  the  vizier 
with  anxious  haste,  too  well  aware  of  the  generous 
nature  of  the  Caliph.  "If  Pelayo  lays  down  his  arms, 
the  Infanta  might  be  escorted  back  in  safety  to  the 
rocks  and  caverns  he  makes  his  home,  but  if  he  still 
raises  the  standard  of  revolt,  a  bow-string  would  better 
suit  the  lady's  throat." 

"Silence,  slave,"  replies  Abdurraman  in  a  deep  voice. 
"Great  Allah!  Shall  we  degrade  ourselves  to  make  suc- 
cess depend  on  the  Hfe  of  a  woman?  Summon  her  at 
once  here.  When  she  arrives  in  Cordoba,  let  her  im- 
mediately be  conducted  to  my  harem.  Let  orders  be 
given  for  her  immediate  departure  from  Gijon  with 
suitable  attendants." 

"Oh,  justest  of  men  and  greatest  of  rulers,"  answers 
the  vizier,  "permit  your  slave  yet  to  speak  one  word. 
These  infidels  must  be  reached  through  their  women. 
Leave,  I  pray  you,  Onesinda  to  the  Governor  of  Gijon, 
and  she  will  be  bait  to  catch  her  brother  Pelayo." 

"I  have  spoken,"  answers  Abdurraman,  haughtily, 
and  turned  away.     "Be  it  according  to  my  commands." 

Deep  was  the  obeisance  with  which  this  order  was 
received,  but  the  astute  vizier  had  views  of  his  own.  In 
the  main  he  was  a  faithful  servant  of  his  lord,  but  where 
a   woman   was   concerned,   he   deemed   it  no  crime  to 


154  OLD    COURT  LIFE   IN  SPAIN. 

temper  obedience  with  interest.  An  unbeliever!  the  sister 
of  a  Goth!  what  was  this  Onesinda  but  a  toy,  a  slave, 
honoured  by  a  glance  from  her  conqueror?  Had  the 
Caliph  commanded  her  immediate  execution  he  would 
willingly  have  obeyed,  but  to  bring  her  to  Cordoba  after 
what  he  knew  of  her  treatment  at  Gijon  was  more  than 
his  head  was  worth. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  the  Governor  of  Gijon  was 
his  friend,  and  that  Mahoun  knew  much  more  about 
Onesinda  than  he  intended  to  impart.  Her  capture  had 
been  a  cruel  stratagem,  and  at  this  very  time  she  was 
forcibly  lodged  in  the  harem  of  Kerim. 

The  vizier  had  not  dared  altogether  to  conceal  the 
important  fact  of  her  capture  from  the  Sultan,  but  that 
she  should  reach  Cordoba  alive  and  tell  the  tale  of  her 
misfortunes,  was  not  at  all  his  intention.  The  passion 
Kerim  had  conceived  for  her  was  well  known  to  Mahoun, 
and  that  she  was  surrounded  by  Moorish  slaves,  who 
not  only  urged  his  suit  by  threats  and  persuasion,  but 
watched  her  every  action.  If  Onesinda  did  not  yield 
to  the  desires  of  Kerim,  her  brother's  fate  was  certain, 
were  he  taken  dead  or  alive. 

On  Pelayo  rested  the  hope  of  the  fugitive  Goths. 
The  last  of  the  long  line  of  hereditary  princes,  all  the 
trust  of  the  conquered  lay  in  him.  That  this  base 
intrigue  should  come  to  the  knowledge  of  the  Caliph 
was  death  to  all  concerned.  Not  all  the  bribes  offered 
him  by  Kerim  in  rich  stuffs,  jewels  and  slaves,  could 
blind  the  astute  vizier  to  the  danger  of  his  position. 

"May  Allah  confound  Kerim  and  his  harem!"  he 
exclaimed  in  a  rage,  as  he  paced  the  gardens  after  the 
Sultan's   departure   until  late  into  the  night,   his  silken 


OLD    COURT  LIFE   IN  SPAIN.  1 55 

sandals  falling  lightly  on  the  coloured  patterns  drawn 
upon  the  walks.  "Why  could  not  the  dark-skinned 
beauties  of  Barbary  content  him  without  meddling  with 
the  pale-faced  Goth?  Truly  the  flag  of  the  Crescent 
has  triumphed  over  the  Cross  in  the  length  and  breadth 
of  Spain;  but  it  is  not  wise  to  provoke  a  fallen  people. 
These  Goths  have  the  endurance  of  the  camel  of  the 
desert,  which  lives  long  without  food  or  drink,  but  even 
that  patient  animal  will  turn  upon  his  driver  if  he  rains 
down  blows  upon  him  causelessly.  Better  let  the  infidels 
starve  in  holes  and  caverns  than  bring  them  down  into 
the  plains,  bent  on  a  desperate  revenge.  A  curse  on 
Kerim!  The  Sultan  forgets  nothing.  He  will  ask  for 
Onesinda.    What  in  the  name  of  Allah  am  I  to  reply?" 

CHAPTER    Xin. 
ONESINDA  AND   KERIM. 

Kerim-el-Nozier,  the  Governor  of  Gijon  in  Gallicia, 
is  a  Berber,  infinitely  less  cultured  than  the  Moors,  and 
the  distance  from  the  capital  at  Cordoba  has  made  him 
almost  independent  of  ail  rule. 

Little  did  the  noble-minded  Caliph,  Abdurraman, 
guess  what  was  passing  at  this  moment  in  the  remote 
peninsula  at  Gijon,  sheltered  on  one  side  by  the  dark 
hill  of  Santa  Catalina,  on  the  other  exposed  to  the  full 
force  of  the  rollers  of  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  and  that  the 
governor  he  had  appointed  was  a  tyrant  who  knew  no 
law  but  his  own  will. 

Kerim  is  not  a  warrior  to  please  a  lady's  eye.  The 
voluminous  folds  of  a  white  turban  rest  on  a  forehead 
bare  of  hair,   a  rough  and  matted  beard  curls  on  his 


156  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

chin  and  reaches  to  his  ears,  in  which  hang  two  uncut 
emeralds.  He  is  low  in  stature  and  corpulent  in  person. 
His  long  dark  arms  are  bare,  ornamented  with  glittering 
bangles,  his  body  swathed  with  a  gaudily  striped  cloth 
over  a  rich  vest,  and  full  trousers  descend  to  his  feet. 
Sudden  and  abrupt  in  his  movements,  he  sits  uneasily 
on  a  raised  dais  covered  with  skins,  a  drapery  of  Eastern 
silk  over  his  head.  A  strong  perfume  of  attar  pervades 
the  recess,  lined  with  divans,  at  the  extremity  of  an 
immense  Gothic  hall,  open  at  the  opposite  end,  and 
divided  into  separate  apartments  by  oriental  screens  and 
tapestry. 

The  recent  conquests  in  the  North  had  given  the 
Moors  as  yet  no  time  to  erect  either  dwellings,  mosques, 
or  baths,  those  necessities  of  Eastern  life,  and  they 
were  fain  to  accept  the  rough  habitations  and  castles 
of  the  Goths  as  they  found  them. 

Terrible  is  the  expression  of  his  eyes,  the  white 
against  the  tawny  sockets,  as  he  turns  them  full  on  a 
slender  form  before  him,  wrapped  in  an  embroidered 
mantle,  held  in  the  strong  grasp  of  a  Nubian  slave.  A 
naked  scimitar  Hes  on  the  ground  and  the  shadow  of  a 
mute  darkens  the  curtained  entrance. 

Of  the  lady's  face  nothing  is  seen.  She  holds  her 
hands  clasped  over  her  eyes,  as  if  to  shut  out  the  re- 
pellent visage  of  the  Berber. 

Taking  in  his  hand,  from  a  salver  placed  on  the 
ground,  one  of  the  jewelled  goblets  which  lay  on  it,  and 
filling  it  with  sherbet,  Kerim  rises  to  his  feet. 

"I  drink,"  he  says,  in  a  loud  jarring  voice,  "to  the 
success  of  the  Goths  and  of  Pelayo.  Will  you  pledge 
me,  Christian  lady?" 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN.  157 

No  answer  comes  from  the  veiled  figure,  but  the 
trembhng  of  the  drapery  shows  that  she  is  convulsed 
with  fear. 

"Unhand  the  Infanta,"  says  Kerim  to  the  Nubian, 
"and  retire." 

Between  them  lay  the  scimitar,  catching  the  light. 

"Onesinda,"  and  Kerim  seizes  her  passive  hand, 
"listen!  Kerim  is  not  the  senseless  tyrant  you  deem 
him.  But  before  I  unfold  my  projects  to  your  ear,  I 
warn  you  to  take  heed.  You  are  my  prisoner,  held  by 
tlie  right  of  war.  A  motion  of  my  hand  and  that  fair 
skin  is  dyed  as  crimson  as  the  petals  of  the  fiery  pome- 
granate expanding  in  the  heat  of  noon.  As  yet  you 
have  refused  all  speech  with  me.  Urge  me  not  too  far, 
I  warn  you." 

"Alas!"  answers  Onesinda,  speaking  with  quick 
breath,  as  she  tears  asunder  the  drapery  which  fell  upon 
her  face  and  displays  an  ashy  countenance  belying  her 
bold  words,  "I  do  not  fear  death,  but  infamy.  Now, 
God  be  gracious  to  me,  for  the  succour  of  man  is  vain." 
As  she  spoke  she  drew  herself  back  to  the  farthest 
limit  of  the  curtained  space  in  an  attitude,  not  of 
resistance,  for  that  was  useless,  but  as  one  unwilling  to 
provoke  assault,  yet  if  offered,  resolved  to  repel  it  to 
the  utmost  of  her  power. 

She  who,  were  her  brother  dead,  would  be  pro- 
claimed by  the  small  remnant  of  her  people  Queen  of 
the  Goths,  was  fair  as  became  her  race  and  of  good 
proportions.  A  native  loftiness  in  features  and  bearing 
took  from  her  all  notion  of  the  insipidity  which  attaches 
itself  to  that  complexion;  her  eyes  were  blue,  untouched 
by  the  unnatural  glitter  so  loved  by  the  Moorish  women, 


158  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

and  her  profuse  flaxen  hair  fell  in  ringlets  about  her 
neck,  on  which  a  solid  gold  chain  and  heavy  medallion 
rested.  A  kirtle  over  a  vest,  open  at  the  throat,  of 
blue  taffetas  worked  in  coloured  silks,  formed  a  loose 
robe  lined  with  fur,  and  a  veil  of  silk,  falling  at  the 
back  of  her  neck,  concealed  the  snowy  skin  of  her  neck 
and  bosom  and  served  as  a  covering  to  her  hair. 

"You  have  no  reason  to  fear  me,"  cries  Kerim,  but 
the  base  passion  which  looked  out  of  his  eyes  gave  to 
his  words  a  very  different  interpretation. 

"There  can  be  no  peace  between  us,"  answers  One- 
sinda,  trembling  in  every  limb,  as  she  presses  closer 
and  closer  to  the  wooden  pillars  at  her  back.  "Had 
your  purpose  been  honest,  you  would  not  have  captured 
me  treacherously  and  kept  me  here.  Pelayo's  sister 
will  never  yield  to  force.  To  plant  that  steel  in  my 
breast,"  pointing  to  the  richly-set  dagger  he  wore  at  his 
waist,  "is  the  only  service  you  can  do  me." 

"But  you  must  listen,"  retorts  Kerim,  drawing  so 
near  his  hot  breath  fell  on  her  cheek;  "for  the  sake  of 
Pelayo.  To  further  the  good  of  this  growing  kingdom 
of  the  Moors,  I  desire  to  ally  myself  with  the  royal 
blood  of  Spain  and  rally  about  me  those  Christians  who 
still  gather  round  your  brother.  The  throne  of  Cordoba 
is  too  distant,  the  empire  too  vast.  Abdurraman  needs 
able  lieutenants.  Kerim  will  free  him  of  these  northern 
provinces  and  govern  them  himself  It  is  a  feeble  mind 
which  waits  for  Fortune's  wheel,  the  brave  must  seize  it, 
and  turn  it  for  themselves.  Under  me  the  sons  of  the 
Goths  shall  serve,  Alonzo  and  Friula  and  the  rest, 
Pelayo  above  all,  next  to  myself,  for  the  fair  Onesinda's 
sake!     Again  I   ask   you,    Christian   Princess,    will   you 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  159 

pledge  me  to  our  success?"  And  his  hand  again  seizes 
the  goblet,  which  he  holds  to  her  lips. 

Had  Onesinda  seen  the  look  which  accompanied 
this  gesture  she  would  have  sunk  insensible  to  the  earth, 
so  revolting  was  the  effect  of  love  in  such  a  form,  so 
savage  and  brutal  the  nature;  but  her  head  had  fallen 
on  her  bosom,  and  her  closed  eyes  and  deadly  pallor 
disconcerted  Kerim,  who,  with  widely-opened  eyes,  con- 
templated his  victim  in  doubt  if  she  were  not  already 
dead.  A  slight  trembling  of  the  eyelids  and  a  con- 
vulsive motion  about  the  lips,  relieved  him  of  this  fear. 
With  the  utmost  care  he  placed  her  on  a  divan,  and 
pouring  into  her  white  lips  some  of  the  sherbet  con- 
tained in  the  goblet,  anxiously  watched  the  efforts  which 
Nature  made  to  revive  her.  As  she  heaved  a  deep 
sigh,  she  opened  her  eyes,  then  closed  them  again  with 
a  shrill  cry  at  the  sight  of  the  black  visage  of  Kerim 
bent  over  her. 

"Listen,"  he  says  again,  in  a  much  gentler  voice. 
He  understood  that  excessive  fear  or  a  too  great  re- 
pugnance would  be  fatal,  therefore  he  curbed  his  pas- 
sion. 

"If  you  will  consent  to  be  my  Sultana,  Pelayo  shall 
be  my  second  in  the  kingdom  of  the  Asturias.  If  not" 
— and,  spite  of  himself,  such  a  look  of  ferocity  came 
over  his  face  that  Onesinda  shrank  from  him  with  in- 
expressible disgust — "the  blood  of  every  knight  I  have 
taken  shall  water  the  earth  of  Gijon,  specially  that  of 
Pelayo,  who  shall  expire  in  unknown  torments.  Choose, 
Christian,  between  life  with  me,  or  certain  ruin  to  your 
race." 

As  he  awaits  her  answer,   Kerim  seats  himself  by 


l6o  OLD   COURT  LIFE   IN  SPAIN. 

her  side.  With  a  smile  on  his  dark  face  he  strove  to 
take  her  hand.  In  this  gentler  mood,  he  seemed  to 
Onesinda  a  thousand  times  more  loathsome  than  in  his 
fiercest  moments. 

One  glance  was  enough.  Gathering  her  robes  about 
her,  she  darts  to  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  vast  hall. 

"Moor,"  she  cries,  and  the  horror  she  felt  was  ex- 
pressed in  her  features,  "for  me  death  has  no  terrors. 
For  my  brother,  I  do  not  believe  you.  Can  the  eagle 
nest  with  the  vulture?  the  dove  with  the  serpent?  It  is 
but  a  cruel  wile  to  deceive  me." 

"I  swear  it,  lady,  by  the  tomb  of  the  Prophet. 
Think  well  before  you  take  your  own  life  and  that  of 
those  who  are  dear  to  you."  He  paused,  and  the  un- 
happy Onesinda  felt  all  the  agony  of  her  position.  To 
allow  this  hideous  African  to  approach  her  was  to  her 
a  fate  so  horrible  that  flesh  and  blood  rose  up  in  revolt 
against  it.  To  open  the  possible  chance  of  success  to 
Pelayo  and  his  followers  by  the  sacrifice  of  herself  is, 
as  a  daughter  of  the  Goths,  her  duty,  did  she  believe 
his  words  to  be  sincere. 

Looking  into  his  dark  face,  what  assurance  had 
she?  In  his  cruel  eyes?  In  those  full  red  lips,  cutting 
like  blood  athwart  the  blackness  of  his  beard?  It  is 
the  countenance  of  a  savage.  Not  a  generous  quality 
could  dwell  under  such  a  mask.  No,  there  is  nothing 
in  the  hard  nature  of  this  African  on  which  to  form  a 
hope!  And  yet  her  brother's  life,  if  he  speaks  truly, 
hangs  on  his  will.  She  had  no  means  to  prove  his 
words.  Pelayo  is  absent,  some  said  already  dead.  Was 
this  dark  treachery  towards  his  Sultan  true?  Or  rather 
is  it  not  some  fiendish  scheme  to  entrap  the  last  remnant 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  l6l 

of  the  Goths  and  raise  himself  to  power  and  favour  with 
Abdurraman? 

Bursting  into  a  flood  of  tears,  she  casts  herself  upon 
the  ground  and  fixes  on  him  her  pale  blue  eyes. 

"Alas!  you  know  not  the  heart  of  woman  to  make 
such  a  proposal.  To  invoke  your  pity,"  and  her  voice 
trembles,  "would  be  as  useless  as  it  is  mean.  Help  the 
noble  sons  of  the  land,  but  insist  not  on  such  a  sacri- 
fice. By  the  memory  of  your  father,  by  the  bones  of 
your  chiefs,  seek  not  an  end  so  wicked." 

Unmoved,  Kerim  contemplates  her,  a  smile  of  triumph 
on  his  dark  face. 

"It  is  your  turn  now  to  supplicate,  proud  Infanta, 
mine  to  deny.  Either  you  comply,  or  every  Moslem 
soldier  in  the  citadel  of  Gijon  shall  hunt  the  Goths  in 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  Asturias  like  vermin. 
Reflect  ere  you  decide.  I  swear  by  the  Holy  Caaba  I 
speak  truth." 

With  a  menacing  gesture  he  departs,  leaving  One- 
sinda  prostrate  on  the  ground  and  the  Moorish  slaves 
return  to  bear  her  into  the  dark  grove  where  the  harem 
stood  fronting  the  ever-beating  sea  that  washes  the  iron- 
bound  coast  which  girds  the  north  of  Spain. 

CHAPTER    XIV. 
TRAGIC  DEATH  OF   ONESINDA. 

The  Plaza  of  Gijon  swarms  with  a  motley  crowd. 
The  news  of  some  great  event  to  take  place  had  spread 
abroad  and  brought  down  peasants  from  the  distant 
mountain- tops,  clad  in  primitive  coverings  of  skins,  and 
the   thick-set  natives   of  Gallicia  from   their  groves   of 

Old  Court  Life  in  Spain.   I.  II 


1 62  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

wide-branching  oaks  and  thick  copse  wood,  too  often 
stained  with  blood  in  the  fierce  encounters  between 
Moslem  and  Christian. 

Townsmen  there  are,  in  coarse  hempen  garments, 
and  artificers  from  the  lowly  dwellings  of  Gijon,  mixed 
with  mounted  groups  of  naked  Nubians,  as  black 
as  night;  Bedouins  carrying  long  lances  and  wattled 
shields;  Berbers  and  Kurds  on  foot  among  the  crowd, 
casting  looks  of  defiance  on  the  sons  of  the  soil,  easily 
recognised  by  the  fairness  of  their  faces  and  long 
auburn  hair,  grouped  about  native  musicians  singing 
wild  melodies  to  the  click  of  the  castanets;  Moorish 
knights  in  the  light  armour  which  contrasts  so  favour- 
ably with  the  heavy  accoutrements  of  the  West — an  in- 
distinguishable rabble  of  the  conquered  and  the  con- 
querors, remarkable  for  nothing  but  the  contentious  and 
sullen  spirit  in  which  the  Moslem  ousts  the  Christian  at 
all  points. 

In  the  centre  of  the  plaza  rises  a  gaudy  pavilion 
formed  of  sheets  of  the  brightest  silk,  scariet,  yellow, 
blue  and  orange,  the  tent-poles  and  pillars  glittering 
with  tiny  flags,  before  which  the  astounding  clamour  of 
bands  of  Eastern  musicians  raise  martial  echoes.  Within, 
visible  through  the  partially  withdrawn  curtains,  a  throne 
is  placed  with  such  magnificence  as  the  limited  means 
permit. 

Planted  in  front  the  standard  of  Kerim  floats  heavily 
in  the  breeze,  this  Arab  of  the  desert  pretending  to  no 
distinction  but  the  star  and  the  crescent,  the  emblems 
of  his  faith.  Horsemen  and  foot  soldiers  are  ranged  on 
either  side,  and  banners  and  pennons  are  displayed  by 
each  Moorish   knight  or  captain   before   his   own   tent, 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  1 63 

dazzling  with  the  flash  of  splendid  accoutrements  and 
gorgeous  display  of  brocade  and  tossing  plumes,  flutter- 
ing to  the  sound  of  drums,  trumpets  and  shrill-voiced 
pipes,  recalling  to  the  Arabs  the  deserts  of  their  home. 

A  mass  of  dismounted  cavalry  is  stationed  before 
the  pavilion  on  which  all  eyes  are  turned,  each  Moslem 
erect  by  the  side  of  his  gaily-draped  charger,  until,  at  a 
shrill  cry,  surmounting  even  the  din  of  the  music,  each 
man  vaults  into  the  saddle  and  spurs  forward  towards 
a  cloud  of  dust  announcing  the  arrival  of  Kerim  sur- 
rounded by  his  Ethiopian  bodyguard. 

At  full  gallop  they  approach,  bristling  with  spears 
and  brandishing  their  scimitars,  disposing  themselves  in 
a  semicircle  which  leaves  Kerim  alone,  so  resplendent 
with  steel,  feathers,  and  gems  that,  as  the  sun  shines 
down  upon  him,  he  looks  like  a  statue  of  light. 

The  grim  forms  and  wild  faces  of  the  Africans, 
tossing  their  arms  in  every  direction  with  savage  shouts, 
reining  up  their  horses  but  a  hair's  breadth  from  the 
edge  of  the  crowd  of  spectators — who,  uttering  piercing 
screams,  rush  backwards  upon  those  behind,  who  in 
their  turn  lift  up  their  voices  in  screams  of  utmost  terror 
— created  such  a  scene  of  noise  and  confusion  that  a 
white  silk  litter  borne  by  slaves,  round  whose  arms  and 
legs  are  bound  rich  bangles  and  bracelets,  followed  by 
a  crowd  of  veiled  women  in  snowy  garments,  is  scarcely 
noticed. 

Yet  a  group  of  dark-robed  Goths  have  marked  it, 
and  the  sadness  of  their  faces  and  their  looks  of  shame 
and  sorrow  show  how  abhorrent  to  them  is  this  Eastern 
pageant  and  its  cause.  For  who  has  not  guessed  the 
occasion  of  these  rejoicings?     Onesinda,   for  the  sake 


164  OLD   COURT  LIFE   IN  SPAIN. 

of  her  people,   has  consented  to  become  the  bride  of 
Kerim. 

Nor  was  she  and  her  countrymen  around  her,  to 
whom,  through  the  light  lattice  of  the  litter,  she  is  plainly 
visible,  without  hope  that  Pelayo,  if  yet  alive,  may  have 
planned  a  rescue.  But  in  the  face  of  such  an  array  of 
forces,  called  out  purposely  by  Kerim,  it  would  be  a  mad 
and  senseless  sacrifice  of  life. 

The  agony  of  mind  of  Onesinda  is  not  to  be  de- 
scribed. Did  he  indeed  appear,  what  would  Pelayo 
think  of  her?  Would  he  understand  the  amount  of  the 
sacrifice?  To  become  a  vile  and  nameless  thing?  To 
submit  to  this  crowning  outrage  of  the  Moor,  with  no 
power  to  whisper  into  his  ear  the  sacredness  of  her 
motive? 

Alas!  poor  Onesinda,  she  is  of  too  gentle  a  nature 
to  battle  with  such  a  fate!  So  colourless  has  she  be- 
come, her  face  is  scarcely  visible  among  the  silken 
cushions  of  the  litter  as  she  breathlessly  scans  the  as- 
sembled crowd. 

A  wild  hope  seizes  her.  May  not  Alonzo  or  Friula, 
if  Pelayo  is  away,  be  present?  Some  valiant  ally  or 
devoted  follower  still  faithful  to  her?  Some  pitying 
Goth  with  a  soul  for  her  distress?  At  least  one  by  his 
look  to  remind  her  that  he  is  there? 

Nothing!  She  sees  the  threatening  faces  of  the 
Moors,  she  hears  their  muttered  curses,  she  beholds 
their  contemptuous  gestures  as  they  point  at  her.  Do 
they  believe  she  is  a  willing  victim? 

And  now  Kerim  has  dismounted  from  his  charger; 
a  tall  white  turban  is  set  upon  his  head,  crowned  with 
a  spiral  diadem,  in  which  a  ruby  crescent  blazes,   sur- 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  1 65 

rounded  by  drops  of  pearls;  a  white  robe,  sown  with 
jewels,  clothes  his  Hmbs,  held  up  by  a  golden  sash 
worked  with  gems,  in  which  the  blade  of  a  small  dagger 
rests,  incrusted  with  precious  stones,  of  so  fine  a  temper 
one  touch  is  sufficient  to  cut  the  thread  of  life. 

Followed  by  his  guards,  he  follows  the  litter  towards 
the  pavilion,  surrounded  by  a  phalanx  of  sheikhs  and 
alcaides.  And  as  he  approaches  the  litter  the  drapery 
is  drawn  aside,  the  clash  of  discordant  music  strikes  up, 
and  the  voice  of  the  Imaum  chants  Allah  Akbar. 

The  moment  is  come;  Onesinda  must  descend.  A 
look  of  mingled  triumph  and  love  lights  up  Kerim's 
swarthy  face  and  brings  out  the  whiteness  of  his  eyes 
into  a  revolting  prominence.  Already  his  naked  arms, 
glittering  with  bracelets,  are  stretched  out  to  clasp  his 
bride,  already  the  soft  aroma  of  her  presence  comes 
wafting  to  his  senses  like  spicy  perfumes  of  paradise, 
when,  by  a  deft  and  sudden  movement,  breaking  from 
the  strong  arms  which  bear  her  up,  Onesinda  seizes  the 
dagger  which  lies  beneath  his  sash  and  with  desperate 
courage  plunges  it  in  her  breast. 

With  frantic  haste  Kerim  tears  it  from  the  wound, 
but  her  Hfe  blood  follows  it.  Clasping  her  in  his  arms, 
he  gazes  on  her  face.  Has  death  come  to  her  instantly? 
Her  eyes  are  closed,  yet  a  faint  flush  is  still  upon  her 
cheek.  Then  the  lids  slowly  rise,  but  the  orbs  are  fixed, 
and  glazed.  Gradually  the  flush  vanishes  and  gives 
place  to  the  pallid  hue  of  death! 

Ere  the  poor  remains  of  the  Gothic  maiden  can  be 
borne  away,  a  great  clattering  of  horses'  feet  is  heard 
advancing;  a  Moslem  herald  gallops  forward,  followed 
by  trumpeters   and   men-at-arms,    and   several   knights, 


1 66  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

who  ride  into  the  plaza.  After  a  flourish  of  trumpets 
and  due  recital  and  summoning  of  Kerim,  Governor  of 
Gijon,  to  listen,  he  is  commanded,  in  the  name  of  the 
redoubtable  Sultan  Abdurraman,  to  appear  without  de- 
lay at  Cordoba,  together  with  his  Christian  captive, 
Onesinda,  sister  of  the  royal  Goth,  known  as  Pelayo, 
Dux  of  Cantabria. 

CHAPTER    XV. 
PELAYO  PROCLAIMED   KING  BY  THE   GOTHS. 

To  those  who  have  not  visited  the  north  of  Spain, 
the  grandeur  of  the  dark  chain  of  the  Asturian  moun- 
tains rising  sheer  out  of  the  plains  of  Leon  and  Lugo, 
can  hardly  be  imagined.  The  change  is  so  abrupt,  the 
aspect  so  dark  and  threatening  of  frowning  defiles, 
deeply-scored  precipices,  and  pointed  summits  heavy 
with  mist.  Here  winter  lingers  into  latest  spring  and 
the  tardy  summer  soon  retreats  before  the  grey  and 
deathlike  hue  which  clothes  the  rocks  and  narrows  inch 
by  inch  with  the  green  mantle  which  sunshine  brings. 

This  is  the  true  Iberia,  the  cradle  of  the  race,  the 
title  borne  by  the  eldest  born  of  Spain,  the  stronghold 
which  has  held  out  last  against  all  conquerors.  The 
Romans  left  their  mark  at  Gijon;  in  the  south  the  Moors 
stamped  the  soil  with  their  lineaments;  in  the  east, 
Catalonia  formed  a  separate  kingdom,  with  laws  and 
customs;  Navarre,  with  its  ancient  line  of  kings,  raised 
Alpine  barriers.  But  the  mountain  crests  are  free,  and 
those  deep  cavernous  recesses  which  cut  the  rocks  re- 
sound only  to  the  shrill  cry  of  the  eagle  or  the  bleat  of 
the  wild  deer. 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  1 67 

Full  in  the  front  of  a  stupendous  face  of  rock,  facing 
east,  the  mouth  of  a  deep  cave  opens;  the  narrow  track 
which  leads  to  it  ends  here,  Nature  herself  forbids 
further  progress.  Piles,  avalanches  rather,  of  black 
boulders,  the  spittle  and  waste  of  mountains  shaken  by 
earthquakes  in  bygone  ages,  have  fallen  from  above, 
and,  smoothed  by  time  to  dull  surfaces  of  greys  and 
greens,  guard  its  opening,  shrouded  by  a  feathery  veil 
of  thorn,  ivy,  and  wild  trailing  plants  which  love  the 
shade. 

From  within  the  cave  a  transparent  rivulet  murmurs 
forth  in  a  bed  of  coloured  pebbles  to  meet  the  sun  and 
join  its  feeble  ripple  to  the  louder  sound  of  other  waters 
flowing  from  the  gorge  above. 

In  front  the  grass  spreads  soft  and  verdant;  cups  of 
the  early  crocuses  peep  out,  lilac  and  white,  and  dark 
purple  violets  nestle  under  dry  leaves,  filling  the  air 
with  fragrance.  A  few  scraggy  beech  trees  turn  their 
white  trunks  outwards,  the  roots  deeply  imbedded  in 
the  rocks,  and  clumps  of  low  firs  and  juniper  follow  the 
almost  imperceptible  track  which  leads  onwards  to  re- 
moter glens. 

Slowly  mounting  from  below,  a  little  band  of  Goths, 
clad  in  the  homespun  jerkins  which  distinguish  them  at 
once  from  their  guadily  attired  conquerers,  ascend  the 
path,  stepping  from  rock  to  rock.  The  dry  leaves  of 
winter  rustle  beneath  their  feet  as  they  pass  up  under 
the  gnarled  boughs  of  scraggy  oaks. 

Carefully  the  foremost  ones  plant  their  steps  upon 
the  stones,  as  they  bear  upon  a  crossed  frame  the  body 
of  Onesinda,  which  the  Christians  of  Gijon  had  secured 


1 68  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

in  the  confusion  following  her  death  and  the  arrival  of 
the  herald  summoning  Kerim  to  Cordoba. 

A  dark  pall  covers  her,  and  so  slight  and  fragile  is 
her  form  that  the  outline  of  her  figure  scarcely  raises 
the  folds. 

Behind  appears  the  stalwart  figure  of  Pelayo,  wear- 
ing the  Gothic  cap  of  steel  and  armed  with  the  simple 
accoutrements  of  a  Dacian  warrior. 

Not  a  tear  moistens  his  eye.  His  face  is  set  and 
white,  marked  by  the  vicissitudes  and  hardships  of  his 
life;  a  countenance  on  which  Nature  has  set  her  seal  as 
a  leader  of  men — the  sole  remaining  link  of  the  early 
Gothic  kings. 

Behind  him  follow  three  other  chiefs,  who  have 
joined  in  an  eternal  hatred  to  the  Moor,  Friula,  Teudis, 
and  Recesvinto. 

A  sorrowful  procession,  fitly  set  in  the  impenetrable 
wilds  which  surround  them,  solemn  as  themselves,  who 
want  no  spur  to  their  resolve  to  sell  their  blood  dear 
in  the  cause  of  their  country.  But  if  they  did,  surely 
the  slight  form  they  are  bearing,  so  cruelly  sacrificed  to 
the  Moor,  is  enough  to  stir  up  their  souls  to  never-end- 
ing vengeance. 

Silently  the  bearers  rest  the  bier  upon  the  green 
platform  of  grass  before  the  cave. 

Then  Pelayo  advances  to  the  front,  and  putting  back 
with  his  hands  the  thickly  trailing  thorns  that  impede 
the  opening,  the  bier  is  placed  within  under  the  shadows 
of  an  overlapping  stone. 

Not  a  word  has  been  spoken,  but  the  murmur  of 
many  streams  go  bubbling  to  the  sun,  the  splash  of 
distant  waterfalls  answer,   and  the  sighing  of  the  wind 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  1 69 

passes  with  hollow  sound.  Only  the  shrill  cry  of  an 
eagle  catches  the  ear  as  it  swoops  upon  its  prey,  un- 
conscious of  the  presence  of  man. 

By  a  common  instinct  the  Gothic  chiefs  gather  be- 
fore the  cave,  the  lofty  figure  of  Pelayo  towering  above 
them  all.  These  men  represent  a  nation  conquered, 
fugitive,  helpless,  but  still  a  nation  which  will  never  die, 
but  live  to  bring  forth  long  lines  of  kings  in  succeeding 
centuries  to  rule  over  two  hemispheres. 

They  know  it,  these  Gothic  chiefs,  the  prophecy  is 
in  them — a  solemn  faith  in  the  justice  of  their  cause, 
which  tells  them  the  hordes  of  unbelievers  shall  not 
prevail. 

And  as  they  wait,  by  other  paths,  invisible  to  the 
eye  but  known  to  the  fugitives,  emerge  the  dark  forms 
of  other  brothers  in  arms,  who  now  join  the  group. 

Every  eye  seeks  Pelayo,  by  whose  invincible  courage, 
wisdom,  and  endurance  this  small  remnant  has  been 
saved.  Every  eye  seeks  his  as  he  stands  aside  leaning 
against  a  rock,  insensible,  as  it  seems,  to  all  but  his 
own  affliction. 

Then  Friula,  nearest  in  kinship  to  the  royal  line, 
speaks, — 

"The  time  is  come,  brothers,  that  we  must  choose 
a  chief  Long  has  the  noble  Pelayo  led  us.  He  has 
now  another  vengeance  to  fulfil.  The  moment  is  op- 
portune. Onesinda  is  dead.  The  butcher  Kerim  has 
been  summoned  to  Cordoba.  The  garrison  of  Gijon 
lacks  a  defender.     Let  him  lead  us  there  as  king." 

"As  king,"  comes  ringing  from  every  side  of  the 
shrouded  summits,  invisible  to  mortal  eye,  but  yet  as 
conscious,  catches  the  words,  and  bears  them  from  hoi- 


170  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

low  depths,  spanless  to  vision,  to  savage  gorges  yawning 
out  among  black  cliffs,  down  which  green  waters  pour 
from  within  the  gloomy  precincts  of  the  cave  where  rests 
all  that  is  left  of  Onesinda. 

"Let  him  be  king!"  sounds  in  many  tones  like  a 
chant  of  freedom,  intoned  by  these  Asturian  wilds,  which 
never  had  felt  the  foot  of  mortal  foe. 

As  the  voices  die  away  amid  a  thousand  echoes, 
Pelayo  turns  and  raises  his  steel  helmet,  showing  the 
careworn  lines  of  his  deeply  wrinkled  face  lit  up  by  no 
gleam  of  triumph.  Ere  he  speaks  he  raises  his  hand, 
and  points  to  the  deep  shadow  of  the  cave. 

"We  are  in  the  presence  of  the  dead.  The  shade 
of  Onesinda  yet  lingers  in  that  body  she  died  to  save. 
Before  her  corpse,  speak  softly.  Let  the  dead  rest  in 
peace." 

"Then  in  her  presence  let  us  crown  him!"  cries 
Friula,  taking  up  the  word.  "For  her  sake  let  the 
vengeance  of  the  Goths  not  tarry." 

"We  are  but  as  a  handful  against  a  nation,"  says 
Recesvinto,  "numberless  as  the  sand  of  the  desert;  but 
we  will  fight  for  Pelayo  and  for  Spain." 

"For  Pelayo  and  for  Spain!"  again  thunders  round. 
Even  the  tiny  streamlet  which  cleaves  the  grass  they 
stand  on  seems  to  snatch  the  words  and  goes  dancing 
downwards,  bearing  them  to  the  world. 

"My  friends  and  brothers,"  cries  Pelayo,  rousing 
himself  from  the  cloud  of  sorrow  in  which  the  death  of 
his  sister  has  plunged  him,  "I  accept  your  trust.  We 
have  been  together  in  many  a  hard-fought  day  since 
the  rout  of  the  Guadalete  sent  us  to  these  wilds.  It  is 
no  crown  I  crave,  even  were  it  the  glorious  iron  circlet 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN.  I7I 

which  bound  the  brows  of  Alaric,  but  to  lead  you  in 
danger  and  in  toil.  For  this  I  will  be  your  king.  God 
willing,  I  will  cut  off  the  Moors  to  the  depth  of  my 
hatred,  root  and  branch.  They  shall  learn  to  curse  the 
day  when  Pelayo  was  proclaimed.  At  the  cave  of 
Cavadonga  a  new  nation  commences,  which,  with  God's 
help,  shall  exceed  the  old.  In  the  name  of  Onesinda 
we  will  triumph." 

A  burst  of  joyful  enthusiasm  follows  this  address. 
He  speaks  with  a  dignity  and  confidence  which  inspires 
his  followers  with  the  reckless  courage  he  feels  within 
his  breast. 

The  Gothic  chiefs  gather  round  him  as  the  sheep 
round  the  faithful  shepherd  when  the  bray  of  the  wolf 
is  borne  upon  the  wind.  No  lack  of  valour  is  visible 
upon  their  dark  brows,  and  looks  of  deadly  defiance 
shoot  from  eye  to  eye  as  they  hasten  to  bind  the  shields 
they  carry  together,  place  Pelayo  on  them,  and  bear  him 
three  times  round  the  face  of  the  cave  of  Cavadonga, 
the  rest  following  with  bare  heads  and  naked  swords. 

The  Moslems  of  Gijon,  when  they  heard  that  the 
fugitive  Goths  had  elected  a  king  in  the  Asturian  moun- 
tains, laughed  with  scorn.  But  he  soon  made  his  pre- 
sence felt  by  frequent  incursions,  causing  great  havoc 
among  the  Moors. 

At  length  he  collected  a  sufficient  force  to  meet 
them  in  a  pitched  battle.  The  great  victory  of  Caincas 
followed,  and  ere  the  eighteen  years  were  passed  during 
which  Pelayo  ruled  over  the  Goths,  the  garrison  of  Gijon 
surrendered,  and  El  Conde  de  Gijon  was  one  of  the 
titles  he  bore  upon  his  shield. 


172  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

In  the  solitude  of  the  Asturias  the  Cave  of  Cava- 
donga  still  is  to  be  found;  the  very  spot  or  campo 
before  it  on  which  Pelayo  was  carried  on  the  shields 
of  his  followers,  is  somewhat  vulgarised  by  a  com- 
memorative obelisk  erected  by  the  Due  de  Montpensier. 
The  valley,  a  perfect  cul  de  sac,  ascends  abruptly  to 
the  site.  Pelayo  lies  within  the  small  church  of  Saint 
EulaHa,  near  at  hand  at  Abaima.  A  simple  stone  is 
engraved  with  his  name  and  a  carved  sword  of  Roman 
pattern. 

It  was  he  who  dealt  the  first  serious  blow  to  the 
invaders.  From  that  time  they  grew  cautious  in  their 
approaches  to  the  north. 

Again  the  Goths  became  a  name  in  the  old  king- 
dom. At  Oviedo,  south  of  Gijon,  the  new  dynasty  took 
root,  concealed  at  first  in  the  obscure  reigns  of  Friula, 
Orelio,  Ramiro,  and  Ordofio,  calling  themselves  Kings 
of  Gallicia  and  Oviedo,  up  to  Alonso  the  Second,  sur- 
named  "the  Chaste,"  791,  when  Leon  came  to  be  both 
the  court  and  capital  of  the  kingdom  of  the  Goths. 

CHAPTER    XVI. 

BERNARDO   DEL   CARPIO. 

The  city  of  Leon  is  a  very  ancient  place,  old  even 
in  the  days  of  the  Romans.  Around  it  circles  the  line 
of  walls  spared  by  Witica  when  he  levelled  the  defences 
throughout  Spain. 

It  is  entered  by  four  gates  opening  into  four  wide 
streets,  crossing  each  other  at  right  angles.  Many  have 
been  the  changes,  but  there  still  stand  the  city  walls, 
substantially   the   same,    the    huge   stones   worked   into 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  1 73 

coarse  rubble,  capped  by  frequent  towers  with  tapia 
turrets  from  which  the  eye  ranges  over  the  leafy  plains 
of  mountain-bound  Gallicia. 

The  houses  are  low-roofed  and  homely,  as  befits  the 
rough  climate  of  the  north;  the  streets  narrow  and  grey. 
Red-brown  and  sepia  is  the  colouring  against  the  sky, 
with  whiffs  of  chill  air  from  the  mountains  and  the  scent 
of  fields  and  flowers,  the  shelter  of  green  thickets  and 
verdant  banks,  sown  with  tall  poplars,  beside  purling 
streams. 

A  homelike  and  pleasant  place,  despised  by  the 
Moors  after  the  African  fantasies  of  the  south,  but  ab- 
solute luxury  to  the  Spaniards,  as  so  much  larger  and 
nobler  than  their  late  capital,  Oviedo. 

Alonso,  surnamed  "the  Chaste,"  second  of  that 
name,  passing  to  the  conclusion  of  a  long  and  prosperous 
reign,  finds  much  that  is  congenial  to  his  monkish  pre- 
judices and  austere  life  in  the  simplicity  of  the  nature 
around. 

That  Alonso's  habits  are  more  of  a  friar  than  of  a 
king  may  be  explained  by  the  aspect  of  the  times.  As 
successor  to  the  pious  "II  Diacono,"  and  as  a  protest 
against  Mauregato,  his  kinsman,  who,  for  the  assistance 
given  him  by  the  Moors,  agreed  to  pay  them  what  is 
often  mentioned  in  history  as  the  "Maiden  Tribute,"  a 
hundred  Christian  maidens  to  be  sent  to  the  Caliph  at 
Cordoba  for  his  harem,  fifty  rich  and  fifty  poor,  a  shame- 
ful agreement  faithfully  fulfilled  until  the  reign  of  Ramiro 
in  866. 

This  specially  developed  in  Alonso  a  sentiment  of 
religious  protest  in  the  form  of  a  rigid  chastity,  not 
only  enforced  in  his  own  person,  but  in  all  those  about 


174  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

him.  As  he  grew  older  these  ideas  take  more  and 
more  hold  upon  him,  and  increase  to  such  a  degree 
as  actually  to  pervert  his  judgment.  Obviously  it  is  the 
interest  of  the  Church  to  encourage  them,  and  for  this 
reason  he  seeks  his  companions  among  priests  and 
monks. 

What  care  his  subjects  that  Alonso  is  called  "the 
Chaste,"  or  that  his  wife,  Queen  Berta,  lives  like  a 
nun?  The  royal  claims  to  sanctity  are  utterly  thrown 
away  upon  a  sarcastic,  laughter-loving  court,  specially 
as  Dona  Ximena,  his  sister,  a  buxom  dame,  with  the 
fair  amplitude  of  her  Gothic  ancestors,  has  so  far 
strayed  from  the  fold  as  to  become  the  mother  of 
a  boy! 

Imagine  the  scandal!  She  is  promptly  ordered  off 
to  a  cloister  for  life,  and  her  lover,  the  heroic  Conde 
de  Saldana,  imprisoned  in  the  castle  of  Luna,  where, 
more  gothicum,  he  is  deprived  of  sight;  Alfonso  himself 
fasting  and  scourging  himself  until  nature  well-nigh 
gives  way,  and  Berta,  the  Queen,  bathed  in  tears,  doing 
nothing  but  confess,  although  she  had  nothing  to  say 
except  that  she  has  lived  in  company  with  such  a  sinner 
as  Ximena! 

But  the  boy  throve  apace,  a  very  lusty  and  proper 
child,  with  no  notion  of  dying  or  care  as  to  who  were 
his  parents,  provided  he  had  enough  to  eat  and  play- 
mates to  amuse  him,  horses  to  ride  and  dogs  to  follow 
him  about  the  court,  where,  with  singular  inconsistency, 
Alonso  allows  him  to  remain  and  bear  the  name  of 
Bernardo  del  Carpio. 

Not  that  he  is  acknowledged  by  the  king — heaven 
forfend!     Though  one  of  those  secrets  known  to  every- 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  175 

one,  Bernardo  himself  was  never  told  how  he  came  into 
the  world,  but  accepted  himself  in  ignorance  as  one 
standing  alone,  not  in  arrogance  and  pride,  but  out  of 
the  simplicity  of  his  heart,  which  prompted  him  to  be 
second  to  none,  seeing  that  he  had  already  given  good 
proofs  of  his  valour  in  tilts  and  tourneys  and  in  con- 
tinual encounters  with  the  Moors,  pressing  hard  on  the 
little  Christian  kingdom,  so  narrow  against  the  sea. 

It  is  a  gusty  morning  in  the  month  of  June;  a  mass 
of  black  clouds  rides  up  from  the  west,  portending  a 
coming  storm.  Distant  thunder  rumbles  between  snatches 
of  fitful  sunshine,  lighting  up  the  inner  court  of  the  royal 
palace  where  the  Roman  prefects  had  ruled — a  plain 
edifice,  built  of  stone,  with  open  arcades  running  round 
supported  by  pilasters  of  coarsely  grained  marble. 

In  and  out  there  is  an  air  of  unusual  bustle  and 
movement.  Sturdy  Goths  were  hurrying  to  and  fro,  their 
long,  unkempt  hair  hanging  on  their  shoulders,  and 
others  of  a  slighter  mould  in  outlandish  draperies  and 
white  turbans,  whose  finer  features  betray  an  Eastern 
origin;  for,  as  was  often  the  case,  African  captives  in 
battle  gladly  accepted,  as  slaves,  the  more  peaceful  ser- 
vice of  the  Christians,  when  no  necessity  was  imposed 
on  them  of  fighting  their  Moslem  brethren. 

In  the  countenances  of  all  there  is  a  look  of  sur- 
prise as  they  hurry  by,  carrying  such  golden  utensils 
as  served  for  the  celebration  of  the  Mass,  jewelled  cups, 
golden  patens,  embroidered  cushions,  and  rich  folds 
of  arras  and  tapestry  worked  in  Algerian  looms,  with 
which  the  chapel  walls  are  decorated  on  high  occasions 
of  state. 


176  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

A  master  of  the  ceremonies,  or  Jefe,  bearing  an 
ivory  wand,  stands  in  the  centre  of  the  court  directing 
the  servants.  His  flat  Castilian  cap  of  a  bright  colour, 
and  dark  manto  Hned  with  fur,  sharp  aquiline  features 
and  piercing  eyes  proclaimed  him  a  native-born  Spaniard 
of  the  old  type. 

"Is  it  that  foreign  palmer?"  he  mutters  between 
his  teeth,  "arrived  from  Navarre,  or  that  Gallic  knight 
who  flies  the  fleur-de-lis  with  such  heavy  armour  and 
delicate  forms  of  speech?  I  warrant  me  he  is  a  hypo- 
crite to  the  core,  as  he  comes  from  the  Frankish  king. 
One  or  both,  they  have  bewitched  our  master.  The 
palmer,  with  his  sandalled  feet  and  cockle-shell,  an  ill- 
favoured  fellow  one  scents  a  mile  off,  dirt  being,  I  am 
told,  a  quality  next  to  holiness — but  I  like  it  not,  the 
odour  of  garlic  is  strong  enough  for  me — is  shut  up  with 
my  lord  in  his  private  closet.  Anyway,  the  king  has 
encountered  the  foul  fiend  somewhere,  that  he  is  tempted 
to  risk  his  crown.  Now  they  have  been  singing  a  laudamiis 
in  the  chapel  for  the  safe  arrival  of  the  French  king, 
whom  the  devil  confound  as  a  stranger  and  an  invader! 
Well-a-day!  The  Holy  Virgin  of  Saragoya  help  us!  We 
can  die  but  once !  Here,  Poilo,  Poilo ! "  he  shouts  at  the 
top  of  his  voice,  to  a  rough,  wolfish-looking  dog  which 
had  precipitated  itself  with  an  angry  growl  and  clenched 
teeth  into  the  arcade. 

"Fie  upon  you  for  an  ill  mannered  brute.  Leave 
the  king's  guests  alone." 

Doffing  his  scarlet  cap,  the  Jefe  at  once  assumed 
the  humble  aspect  of  his  condition,  as  two  personages, 
evidently  of  importance,  emerge  from  the  arcade,  taking 
no  notice  of  his   repeated   low   salutations   nor   of  the 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  I  77 

the  snarls  of  the  dog  which  he  now  held  by  a  silver 
collar,  as  they  walk  up  and  down  the  court  in  eager 
conversation. 

"Was  the  like  ever  heard?"  exclaims  one  of  them, 
a  tall  figure  of  martial  aspect,  attired  in  a  rich  robe 
trimmed  at  neck  and  shoulder  with  minever,  and  secured 
on  the  breast  with  a  huge  gold  brooch. 

"Let  Alonso  forfeit  his  crown  if  he  please,"  is  the 
answer,  "but  I  will  never  consent  to  cut  my  own 
throat." 

"Nor  I,  Favila,"  replies  the  other,  a  younger  man, 
who  held  the  office  of  Chamberlain,  wearing  a  heavy 
gold  chain  about  his  neck,  his  slight  figure  set  off  by  a 
coquettishness  in  the  fashion  of  the  time — a  close-fitting 
tunic  of  dark  green,  with  a  hood  attached  reaching  to 
his  waist,  and  a  plume  fixed  by  a  jewel  in  a  small  cap 
poised  on  one  ear. 

"I  for  one,  will  stoutly  defend  my  castle  and  shake 
off  all  allegiance  to  Alonso.  I  would  rather  join  the 
Moors,  treacherous  as  they  are  and  ready  to  pounce  on 
us  at  every  corner,  than  submit  to  an  inroad  of  new 
enemies  to  overrun  the  land  we  have  rescued  with  so 
much  blood.  Bad  enough  to  have  Charlemagne  for  a 
neighbour,  without  bringing  him  here  to  rule  over  us 
with  the  king's  leave.  They  say  he  and  his  paladins 
are  already  on  the  march.  Why  cannot  the  king  be 
content  to  name  his  sister's  son  his  successor?  Whom 
will  he  find  better  than  the  son  of  Saldana  and  a  royal 
infanta?    I  love  Bernardo  with  all  my  heart." 

"That  Alonso  will  never  do,"  rejoins  the  older  man, 
"in  face  of  his  obstinate  refusal  to  admit  the  legality 
of   the    marriage    of  Dona   Ximena    to    the    Count    of 

Old  Court  Life  in  Spain.   I.  12 


178  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

Saldanha.  They  say  he  has  destroyed  the  documents, 
and  that  Bernardo  can  never  prove  himself  his  father's 
son." 

"He  has  no  notion  of  trying,"  answers  Don  Ricardo, 
"as  far  as  I  can  see.  He  is  strangely  indifferent  to 
name  and  position." 

"But  is  the  reason  known  of  the  king's  strange  per- 
versity?" asked  Don  Favila. 

"In  part  it  is.  First  there  is  this  maggot  in  his 
head  of  chastity." 

"He  will  not  find  that  virtue  among  the  Gallic 
monks  he  is  so  fond  of  harbouring,"  Don  Favila  ob- 
served, twirling  his  black  moustache.  "Of  all  the  hoary 
sinners — " 

"No  matter,"  interrupts  Don  Ricardo,  "that  is  not 
to  the  point.  You  question  me  of  the  reason — if  he 
has  any  tangible  one  and  is  not  mad — that  Alonso 
treats  Bernardo  as  he  does.  Chastity  in  the  first  place. 
The  propagation  of  his  royal  race  offends  him.  He 
glories  in  the  name  of  'the  Chaste.'  He  would  have  all 
his  family  the  same." 

"Fool,"  mutters  Don  Favila,  but  he  offers  no  further 
interruption. 

"Dona  Ximena,  his  only  sister,  was  destined  to  be- 
come the  Abbess  of  the  great  Convent  of  San  Marcos, 
outside  the  gate  of  Leon,  which  he  is  building.  So 
averse  to  love  is  he  himself — " 

"Then  why  in  the  foul  fiend's  name  did  he  marry 
Queen  Berta?"  puts  in  the  younger  man,  evidently  of 
an  impatient  temperament,  but  Don  Ricardo  passes  the 
question  by  as  irrelevant  and  proceeds, — 

"When  he  found  that  the  Infanta  preferred  a  mortal 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  I  79 

to  an  immortal  spouse,  and  had  actually  gone  the  length 
of  bearing  him  a  child,  he  fell  into  such  a  state  of  blind 
rage  that  he  declared  she  had  never  married,  and  shut 
her  up  with  such  rigour  that  she  died." 

"By  Santiago,  a  most  barbarous  act,"  is  the  response; 
"but  saints  are  always  cruel." 

"About  as  barbarous,"  answers  Don  Ricardo,  "as 
calling  in  a  foreigner  to  inherit  the  Gothic  throne, 
Charlemagne,  a  Frank,  to  whom  he  offers  the  succes- 
sion, when  his  own  sister's  child  is  beside  him  branded 
with  infamy." 

"If  this  is  the  Church's  teaching,  I  would  fain  be  a 
Mussulman.  What  will  Bernardo  say  when  he  hears 
of  it?" 

"Who  speaks  of  me?"  cries  a  clear  young  voice, 
coming  from  a  more  distant  part  of  the  patio  where  an 
arched  gateway  led  out  into  the  place  of  arms  in  which 
the  Spanish  knights  and  soldiers  exercised  themselves. 
A  knight's  chain  and  spurs  of  gold  shows  out  from 
under  a  manto  of  dark  velvet,  which  he  threw  on  the 
ground,  and  was  instantly,  with  every  sign  of  reverence, 
picked  up  by  the  Jefe,  with  difficulty  holding  Poilo 
back,  who  with  sharp,  quick  barks  and  yells  of  dehght 
seeks  to  precipitate  itself  on  the  young  knight,  much 
too  pre-occupied  to  observe  it,  save  that  with  a  quick 
wave  of  the  hand  he  dismisses  both  the  dog  and  the 
Jefe. 

Bernardo's  somewhat  short  and  sturdy  figure  is 
clothed  in  linked  mail  which  rattles  as  he  hastens  for- 
ward to  join  Favila  and  Ricardo,  at  the  moment  that 
a  louder  and  nearer  clap  of  thunder  is  audible  and  a 
deeper  shadow  falls. 


l80  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

"Favila,  Ricardo,  you  have  heard  this  cursed  news? 
I  see  it  in  your  faces.  By  the  blood  of  St.  Isidore,  is 
the  king  distraught  that  he  disposes  of  the  kingdom  of 
Leon  as  though  he  were  a  churl  chaffering  away  his 
field?  Can  it  be  true?  I  am  just  come  from  the  moun- 
tains, where  I  have  met  with  sport  both  of  men  and 
beasts,  for  the  Moor  Kirza  has  planted  himself  at  Sela- 
gon,  and  sends  out  detachments  to  the  foot  of  the  Astu- 
rias.     Tell  me,  friends,  can  it  be  true?" 

Both  bow  their  heads. 

"We  will  never  submit,"  said  Favila,  "to  the  Frankish 
king.  Many  are  already  gone  from  the  Court  to  place 
their  castles  in  a  state  of  defence." 

"What!"  exclaims  Bernardo,  whose  cheeks  are  flush- 
ing scarlet  and  the  veins  in  his  forehead  swelling  with 
growing  passion.  "What!  give  away  the  whole  kingdom 
of  Leon,  with  its  warriors  and  nobles,  to  a  foreigner,  as 
if  we  were  a  flock  of  sheep?  I  am  of  no  illustrious 
race  myself" — at  these  words  a  significant  look  passes 
between  his  two  companions,  who  turn  their  eyes  on  the 
ground.  "Faith!  I  know  not  of  what  race  I  am,"  with 
a  short  laugh,  "nor  do  I  care  while  the  king  continues 
his  favour  to  me,  but  I  am  a  Spaniard;  I  will  sell  my 
living  to  no  man." 

"The  king  has  no  heir,"  observes  Favila,  in  a  dry 
tone,  raising  curious  eyes  on  Bernardo.  "He  says  he 
desires  to  settle  the  succession  before  his  death." 

"True,"  answers  Ricardo,  "no  legal  heir,"  and  he, 
in  his  turn,  shot  a  significant  glance  at  Bernardo,  who 
does  not  in  the  least  observe  it.  "He  may  fear  that 
someone  of  his  blood  might  take  his  place  that  he  would 
not  approve." 


OLD    COURT  LIFE   IN   SPAIN.  l8l 

"Sir,  you  speak  in  riddles,"  cries  Bernardo,  cutting 
in.  "Who  is  there  that  the  king  fears  will  step  into 
his  place?  Marry  for  me  I  know  not,  nor  do  I  care. 
Confusion  to  his  surname  of  'the  Chaste,'  if  Alonso 
brings  in  Charlemagne  and  his  paladins  into  the  hard- 
won  land  that  the  noble  Pelayo  wrested  from  the  Moor. 
By  the  memory  of  the  cave  of  Cavadonga  and  the 
sacred  oath  our  ancestors  swore  among  the  savage  rocks 
of  the  Asturias"  (at  these  words,  Bernardo  raises  his 
steel  cap  from  his  head,  and  stands  with  open  brow  and 
glistening  eyes  full  in  the  glory  of  the  fitful  sunshine), 
"I  pledge  myself  never  to  sheathe  my  unworthy  sword 
until  every  invader,  be  he  enemy  or  friend,  Frank, 
Berber,  or  Moor,  be  driven  out  of  the  Hmits  of  Leon. 
I  swear  it,"  he  adds  in  a  deep  tone,  laying  his  right 
hand  on  his  breast,  where,  on  a  laced  front  of  velvet, 
was  embroidered  the  cognizance  he  had  received  from 
the  king.  "You  are  witnesses,  my  friends?"  At  which 
Don  Favila  and  Don  Ricardo  incline  their  heads,  and 
Bernardo  replaces  the  helmet  on  his  head  from  which 
floated  a  sombre  plume,  then  adding,  with  a  light  laugh, 
"Let  Alonzo  play  the  anchorite  if  he  will,  but  all  of  us 
are  not  blest  with  his  virtues." 

"Mock  not,  profane  youth,  the  saintly  name  of  our 
master.  There  is  no  danger  that  your  virtues  will  reach 
the  height  of  his  excellency.  His  pure  soul  lives  more 
in  heaven  than  on  earth,"  says  the  voice  of  an  older 
man,  an  ancient  Jefe  much  honoured  by  the  king,  ad- 
vancing to  join  the  group,  which  had  moved  in  the 
energy  of  talk,  higher  up  towards  the  stone  border  of  a 
fountain  which  rose  from  the  base  of  a  Roman  statue 
overgrown  with  moss  and  weeds. 


1 82  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN    SPAIN. 

"Your  challenge,  Bernardo,  comes  too  late.  Char- 
lemagne is  already  near  the  Pyrenees,  with  all  his 
knights  and  vassals,  the  renowned  Roland  among  them; 
they  will  soon  touch  the  soil  of  Leon,  to  accept  the  in- 
heritance our  gracious  king  has  given  him.  Once  ar- 
rived in  Leon,  you  dare  not,  presumptuous  boy,  who 
judge  your  betters  by  yourself,  draw  your  sword  upon 
the  guest  of  Alonso." 

"He  shall  never  be  his  guest,"  shouts  Bernardo, 
fire  flashing  from  his  eyes;  "neither  Charlemagne  nor 
his  peers,  his  knights  or  paladins,  Roland  and  the  rest 
shall  set  their  feet  in  Leon.  I,  Bernardo  del  Carpio, 
will  bar  the  way."  A  laugh  of  derision  comes  from  the 
old  chamberlain,  at  what  he  considers  such  madness. 
Even  Favila  and  Ricardo  smile,  so  vain  it  seems  that 
this  youth  could  stay  the  advance  of  the  greatest 
monarch  in  Christendom. 

"You  laugh!"  cries  Bernardo,  turning  fiercely  round, 
his  glittering  eyes  aglow.  "You  deem  I  boast?  Be  it 
so.  Time  will  show.  I  speak  not  of  Divine  help,  San- 
tiago on  his  milk  white  charger  armed  cap-a-pie  in 
radiant  steel  interposing,  or  other  monkish  tales.  If 
deeds  are  the  language  of  the  brave,  words  lie  with 
fools.  Was  it  with  words  Pelayo  revenged  his  sister's 
death  and  raised  the  Gothic  standard  against  the  great 
Abdurraman?  Excuse  me,  good  sir,"  he  adds,  break- 
ing off  suddenly,  the  inspired  look  passing  from  his 
countenance  as  he  addresses  the  older  man,  whose 
sarcastic  countenance  is  still  shapened  to  a  sneer — "If 
I  who  am  so  young,  speak  my  mind.  I  go  to  the  king 
to  remonstrate." 

"You  would  do  better  to  forbear,"  hastily  interrupts 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  1 83 

the  old  courtier.    "The  king  is  at  his  devotions,  assisted 
by  a  learned  monk  lately  arrived  from  Navarre." 

"I  care  not,  though  the  air  breed  monks  as  thick  as 
flies;  you  stay  me  not,  Sir  Chamberlain." 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

KING  ALONSO. 

Bernardo  hastily  passed  the  court  with  swift,  straight 
strides,  his  form  in  shadow  defined  against  the  light.  A 
heavy  peal  of  thunder  sounded  overhead  as  he  turned 
to  the  right,  where  a  marble  stair,  with  a  sculptured 
balustrade,  guarded  by  soldiers,  led  to  the  royal  apart- 
ments on  the  first  floor,  under  a  flat  roof. 

"  'Tis  indeed  a  foul  shame,"  said  Don  Favila,  looking 
after  him,  as  he  and  his  companions  took  shelter  under 
the  arcade  from  the  now  thickly  falling  rain,  "that  our 
king,  who  loves  him  well,  does  not  grant  him  the  honours 
of  his  birth  and  name  him  his  successor.  He  guesses 
not  who  he  is.  You  noted  his  words?"  turning  to 
Ricardo,  who  nodded. 

"What!  a  bastard!"  exclaimed  the  aged  Chamber- 
lain, "a  braggart  and  a  bastard,  instead  of  the  victorious 
Charlemagne?  Good  gentlemen,  you  are  distraught. 
Would  you  have  a  sovereign,  the  pureness  of  whose  life 
will  pass  as  an  example  in  all  time,  forget  so  far  his 
principles  as  to  countenance  his  sister's  shame?  The 
king,  my  master,  has  done  rightly  to  protect  his  kingdom 
from  such  reproach." 

Meanwhile  Bernardo,  passing  the  Alguazils  who  knew 
him  well,  his  mailed  feet  resounding  on  the  marble  floor 
as  step  by  step  he  reached  a  door  before  which  a  heavy 


184  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

panel  of  tapestry  is  displayed,  bearing  a  royal  crown, 
and  beneath  the  arms  of  Leon  and  Oviedo,  bound  by 
an  inscription  in  old  Gothic  letters. 

The  first  chamber,  lined  with  wooden  wainscot  and 
a  groined  oaken  roof,  is  bare  of  other  furniture,  save 
some  rudely  carved  benches,  on  which  meanly  attired 
attendants  sit  or  lounge. 

These  Bernardo  passes  with  a  hasty  salute,  which 
they  respectfully  return,  then  on  into  another  and  another 
chamber  floored  with  coloured  Moorish  tiles,  into  the 
last,  a  hugely  proportioned  hall,  the  carved  roof  sup- 
ported by  lofty  pillars.  This  hall,  through  the  window 
of  which  the  lightning  plays,  though  void  of  furniture, 
is  far  more  ornate  than  the  rest,  seeing  that  at  the 
farther  end,  on  a  raised  platform,  surmounted  by  a  dusty 
canopy,  is  a  throne,  on  which  a  royal  chair  is  placed, 
used  on  such  rare  occasions  as  when  Alonso  receives  his 
companeros  and  knights  in  state. 

Nothing  can  exceed  the  neglect  of  this  primitive 
apartment,  now  seen  in  the  deep  shadow  of  the  coming 
storm.  Trophies  of  early  Gothic  armour  are  fixed  on 
hangings  of  once  embroidered  damask;  but  so  httle  care 
has  been  taken  that  the  nails  had  given  way,  the  tapestry 
had  fallen,  and  the  mortar  which  knit  together  the  solid 
blocks  of  stone  is  visible. 

Before  the  throne  stood  a  long  wooden  table,  on 
which  rested  a  rich  enamelled  crucifix,  set  with  jewels, 
and  huge  candelabras  of  silver,  holding  waxen  torches 
such  as  are  used  in  churches  to  light  up  the  shrines  of 
saints,  a  rude  attempt  at  splendour  which  left  the  rest 
more  bare.  Seats  there  are  with  time-stained  leather 
coverings,    and  a  royal  chair  inlaid  with  ivory,   as  was 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  1 85 

also  the  curiously  formed  footstool.  Two  low  doors 
open  in  a  recess  behind  the  throne  into  two  opposite 
turrets,  one  leading  to  the  private  apartments  of  the 
king,  who  lives  alone,  Queen  Berta  being  relegated  to 
a  distant  part  of  the  palace,  which  formed  three  sides 
of  a  square,  fronting  the  cathedral,  where  a  delicate 
array  of  carved  saints  and  martyrs  niched  round  the 
deep  curves  of  three  arched  portals  under  two  turreted 
towers,  the  other  door  opening  into  a  small  chapel, 
where  Alonso,  kneeling  on  the  bare  stones,  passed  great 
part  of  the  day  and  often  deep  into  the  night,  in  ecstatic 
prayer  and  meditation. 

Not  for  a  moment  did  Bernardo  hesitate.  Knocking 
on  the  oaken  panels  interspersed  with  heavy  nails  which 
opened  to  the  chapel,  the  latch  yielded  to  his  hand, 
and  he  entered  as  a  blinding  flash  of  lightning  gleamed 
bright  and  strong  and  the  thunder  broke  loudly  over- 
head. An  instant  after  all  had  darkened  into  so  profound 
a  gloom  that  at  first  nothing  was  visible,  except  the 
dim  outline  of  a  gilt  retablo  behind  the  altar,  on  which 
a  light  burnt  day  and  night  before  the  ever-present  host 
and  such  sacred  bones  and  relics  as  had  been  saved 
from  desecration  by  the  Moors. 

"Who  dares  to  break  in  on  my  devotions?"  cried  a 
harsh  voice,  speaking  as  it  were  from  the  depths  of 
sudden  night  before  a  shrine  concealed  in  the  sunken 
curvings  of  the  wall.  "Begone!  leave  me  to  commune 
with  the  saints." 

"It  is  in  their  name  I  come,  O  King,  to  defend  the 
land  they  love,"  answered  Bernardo,  bending  his  knee, 
in  a  voice  so  young  and  fresh,  life  and  youth  seemed  to 
waft  with  it  into  the  gloom. 


I  86  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence. 

"Not  now,  Bernardo,  not  now,  my  boy.  Leave  me. 
I  have  vowed  a  novena  to  the  Virgin  of  Saragoza,  whose 
favour  I  specially  implore,  with  that  of  the  Holy  Santiago 
and  Sant  Isidore  our  patrons,  on  a  great  project  I  have 
in  hand.     Not  now." 

"Yes,  now/'  in  a  stern  voice  came  from  Bernardo, 
fronting  the  king,  who  had  turned  reluctantly  towards 
him.  "What  I  have  to  say  brooks  not  a  moment's  de- 
lay." Another  crash  from  without  interrupts  him,  and 
a  wild  whirl  of  hail  and  rain  rattle  outside  on  the  case- 
ment. "Oh,  my  lord,"  he  continues,  "are  there  no 
valiant  knights  in  Leon  that  you  should  betray  your 
kingdom  into  the  hands  of  a  strange  king?" 

"Betray?  you  dare  to  say  betray,  after  the  long  and 
prosperous  reign  heaven  has  vouchsafed  me?"  cries 
Alonso,  rising  up  from  where  he  was  kneeling  as  a  sub- 
dued ray  of  light  lit  the  sunken  features  of  his  emaciated 
face,  with  long  white  hair  and  beard,  the  natural  fair- 
ness of  his  skin  turned  by  time  into  a  yellow  tinge;  his 
eyes  full  and  grey,  with  thin  imperceptible  eyebrows, 
and  cheeks  deeply  Hned  with  wrinkles  which  collected 
on  his  high  forehead  under  a  silken  cap.  A  noble  face, 
once  full  of  manly  beauty,  but  with  an  expression  of 
coldness  and  fickleness  in  the  wandering  eye,  and  weak- 
ness in  the  thin-lined  mouth  which  marred  it.  Then  in 
a  louder  tone  he  continues,  "It  ill  becomes  your  slender 
years,  Bernardo,  and  your  lack  of  experience,  to  ques- 
tion the  wisdom  of  your  sovereign." 

"But  to  sell  us  to  a  foreigner,  my  lord,  to  give  us 
over  into  the  hands  of  the  Frankish  wolf!  This  can 
never  be.     A  courage  equal  to  Charlemagne's  beats  in 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  1 87 

a  thousand  Spanish  breasts,  and  I,  Bernardo,  will  lead 
them.  Not  secretly  and  treacherously,  but  in  the  light 
of  day.  Therefore  I  am  come  to  warn  you  against 
yourself.  For  by  no  unbiassed  will  of  your  own  have 
you  done  this  thing." 

"Silence,  rash  boy,"  answers  Alonso,  roused  into  un- 
wonted passion  by  these  stinging  words,  "you  presume 
upon  my  constant  favour  to  insult  me." 

"Never,  oh  never!  All  that  I  know  of  kindness  is 
from  you,"  and  Bernardo  casts  himself  at  Alonso's  feet 
and  seizes  upon  his  hands.  "You  are  my  king  and 
master.  I  forget  none  of  your  bounties  to  a  friendless 
boy"  (at  this  word  Alonso  starts,  and  lays  his  hand 
tenderly  on  Bernardo's  head,  but  presently  withdraws 
it  with  a  sigh);  "but  neither  the  crown  you  wear  nor 
your  bounties,  had  they  been  ten  times  greater,  would 
make  me  a  traitor  to  the  land." 


CHAPTER    XVra. 
BERNARDO   DEL   CARPIO'S   VOW. 

As  Bernardo  knelt  upon  the  steps  of  the  darkened 
altar,  on  which  the  outline  of  a  saint  with  a  dim  glory 
seemed  to  bless  him  with  outstretched  arms,  something 
in  the  ardent  auburn  of  his  hair,  relieved  from  the 
pressure  of  his  cap  of  steel,  which  he  had  removed  be- 
fore entering,  his  open  manly  brow  and  honest  eyes 
fixed  on  him  with  such  pleading  warmth,  touched  some 
subtle  chord  of  tenderness  within  the  King. 

His  sister  Ximena  in  her  youth  rose  up  and  gazed 
at  him  in  Bernardo's  eyes.  Deep  down  in  his  cold 
heart   a  thrill   of  human   affection   throbbed   as   he  re- 


1 88  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

called  their  games  as  children  and  a  thousand  ties  of 
girlish  love  she  had  woven  about  his  heart.  Alas!  how 
he  had  loved  her!  How  he  still  mourned  her,  and  im- 
portuned Heaven  with  constant  prayers,  spite  of  what 
he  considered  the  deadly  sin  of  her  apostasy  in  forming 
an  adulterous  union  which  shut  out  her  son  from  the 
legal  pale  of  kinship!  Therefore  he  had  destroyed  all 
record  of  the  marriage,  ever,  in  the  consideration  of  the 
Church,  a  sacrilegious  act. 

That  the  son  of  his  sister  should  inherit  the  crown 
had  ever  been  to  him  a  horror  and  a  dread.  Indeed, 
in  the  ramifications  of  his  strangely  mixed  nature,  this 
fear  had  mainly  influenced  him  in  the  choice  he  had 
made  of  Charlemagne. 

Now,  by  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  the  very 
boldness  of  Bernardo,  his  open-handed  valour  and  the 
fiery  words  in  which  he  pleaded,  invested  him  with 
something  sacred  as  the  utterance  of  the  true  and 
rightful  defender  of  his  people.  From  that  moment  a 
tardy  remorse  began  to  possess  him,  and  doubts  of  the 
rightfulness  of  his  act  in  destroying  the  proofs  of  his 
legitimacy. 

"Too  late,  too  late,"  he  murmured,  gazing  sorrow- 
fully into  the  depths  of  Bernardo's  clear  blue  eyes,  and 
unconsciously  passing  his  fingers  through  the  beads  of 
an  agate  rosary  suspended  at  his  waist,  as  if  to  invoke 
the  assistance  of  the  saints  to  maintain  the  steadfastness 
of  his  resolve — then  shook  his  head,  which  sank  upon 
his  breast. 

All  this  time  the  war  of  the  elements  was  raging 
without.  Thunder,  lightning,  wind  and  rain  had  burst 
forth  in  one  of  those  sudden  tempests  which  sweep  down 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  lOQ 

from  the  mountains  even  in  the  midst  of  summer.  The 
walls  of  the  old  palace  seemed  to  rock,  and  at  times 
the  voices  of  the  speakers  were  barely  audible. 

"My  lord,  you  answer  not,"  pleads  Bernardo,  rising 
to  his  feet,  offended  at  the  long  silence,  as  a  gleam  of 
vivid  lightning  at  the  same  moment  swept  over  him. 
"Hark!  The  very  powers  of  nature  protest  against 
your  act.  At  least  before  you  made  us  over  as  vassals 
to  Charlemagne  you  might  have  called  the  Cortes  to- 
gether, and  heard  what  the  nation  had  to  say.  But  let 
me  tell  you,  Don  Alonso,  you  have  made  a  promise 
you  can  never  keep.  Instead  of  the  crown  of  Leon, 
Charlemagne  will  have  to  face  a  nation  in  arms.  Every 
man  that  bears  the  name  of  Castilian  will  rise  and 
water  the  soil  with  his  blood  rather  than  yield,  and  I, 
Bernardo  del  Carpio,  will  lead  them!" 

For  an  instant  the  fury  within  him  overtopped  all 
control,  but  he  checked  himself  as  Alonso  answered, — 

"Bernardo,  Bernardo!  Again  I  warn  you  not  to 
overstep  the  respect  you  owe  me.  Your  words  are 
sharp,  but  there  is  a  ring  of  truth  in  them,  I  admit. 
Bethink  you,  my  boy,"  and  Alonso's  voice  fell  suddenly 
into  a  feeble  tone,  "Charlemagne  is  a  Christian  king, 
and  a  great  warrior,  whose  power  has  always  curbed 
the  Moor.  To  exterminate  the  Moslem  is  the  duty  of 
sovereigns  who  love  the  Saints.  Who  is  so  strong  as 
he?  Wage  no  war  on  Christians,  but  keep  your  sword 
for  the  vile  Infidels  who  press  round  the  limits  of  our 
land." 

"Christian  or  Moslem,  my  lord,  Charlemagne  shall 
never  lead  the  knights  of  Leon,"  cries  Bernardo.  "But 
before  I  go" — (and  again  he  bowed  his  knee  before  the 


IQO  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

king,  who  had  now  seated  himself  in  an  arched  niche, 
a  silver  lamp  suspended  over  his  head  among  the  rich 
details  of  garlands  and  shields,  crowns  and  badges  at 
moments  visible  in  startling  distinctness  in  the  rapidly 
succeeding  sheets  of  lightnmg) — "Tell  me,  I  pray  you, 
what  name  I  bear,  and  from  whom  I  am  sprung?  I 
crave  it  as  a  boon.  Men  call  me  Bernardo  del  Carpio, 
by  the  name  of  the  castle  you  bestowed  upon  me.  When 
I  question  further  they  turn  aside  and  smile.  But  a 
knight  in  such  a  batde  as  I  go  to  lead  against  the  Franks 
must  wear  his  own  escutcheon  on  his  shield,  not  one 
granted  him  by  favour." 

Had  a  viper  suddenly  fixed  its  sharpest  fangs  upon 
his  flesh  Alonso  could  not  have  started  with  greater 
horror.  His  glassy  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  the  un- 
conscious Bernardo,  who  eagerly  awaited  his  answer  to 
be  gone,  with  an  expression  of  mingled  dread  and 
terror,  eyeing  him  as  if  the  foul  fiend  himself  had 
crossed  his  path,  while  a  tremendous  explosion  of 
thunder  overhead  rattled  around,  and  flash  after  flash 
of  lightning  quivered  upon  the  walls.  At  length,  out  of 
his  mouth  came  inarticulate  words,  mixed  with  broken 
phrases,  but  spoken  so  low  in  the  uproar  created  by  the 
storm  no  sense  came  to  Bernardo. 

"Begone,  bastard!"  cries  the  king  at  length,  every 
feature  in  his  face  working  with  the  violence  of  his 
passion.  "Have  I  harboured  you  so  many  years  to 
open  the  wound  of  my  dishonour?  Is  this  the  return 
you  make  for  all  my  care?  Neither  name  nor  kindred 
have  you,  so  get  you  gone.  The  sight  of  you  offends 
me." 

"Oh,    my    lord!"    answers   Bernardo,    whose    open 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  igi 

countenance  had  grown  very  white,  deep  lines  forming 
on  mouth  and  brow  with  a  sudden  look  of  age  the 
course  of  years  could  not  have  wrought,  "had  any  man 
but  you  spoken  thus  to  me,  he  would  not  have  lived  to 
draw  another  breath.  Your  words  point  to  some  hideous 
secret,  some  foul  crime,  in  which  you  share.  Great  God! 
whence  am  I  sprung?  The  very  beasts  have  dams  that 
suckle  them,  and  is  Bernardo  alone  deprived  of  the 
common  claims  of  nature?" 

No  answer  came  from  the  king;  no  sign,  no  yielding. 
Bernardo's  question  had  struck  him  to  the  quick. 

"As  you  pray  for  mercy,  sire,  speak  one  word," 
urges  Bernardo,  the  trembling  of  his  lips  telling  what  he 
suffered.     "Are  father  and  mother  dead?" 

"Both  to  me,"  is  the  stern  answer.  "The  mortal 
spark  of  life  can  never  re- animate  the  soul  dead  in  sin. 
Question  me  no  more,  audacious  youth.  And  think  not, 
because  my  blood  runs  in  your  veins  that  I  will  favour 
your  ambition.  Rather  have  I  called  in  the  stranger  to 
occupy  the  throne.  Now  you  know  my  mind.  Were  I 
dead,  my  spirit  would  stand  as  with  a  flaming  sword  to 
shut  you  out." 

"Then  sweeter  far  than  life  and  honour  and  glory, 
come  death!"  exclaims  Bernardo,  throwing  up  his 
arms.  "From  this  day  I  am  a  desperate  man.  My 
sword  is  to  me  the  staff  of  life;  bloodshed  and  carnage 
the  food  on  which  I  live.  Come  now  over  the  grey 
heights  of  the  mountains  the  Frankish  host  and  I  will 
meet  them  as  never  mortal  did  his  country's  foes. 
Come,  great  Charlemagne  and  all  your  peers:  iron-fisted 
Guarinos,  good  Ferragol,  Oliver,  Gayferos,  and  Roland, 
bravest    of   paladins.     Come    all.     Despair,    dishonour 


192  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

are  the  keen  edges  to  the  weapon  which  I  draw  for 
your  destruction.  An  unknown  knight,  degraded  from 
my  place,  I  will  leave  a  name  behind  me  that  shall  be 
honoured  as  long  as  Spain  cleaves  the  seas.  Adieu, 
my  lord,"  turning  to  the  king,  "you  have  forgotten  your 
duty  to  the  land  you  rule,  come  to  you  inch  by  inch, 
bathed  in  Gothic  blood.  I,  Bernardo  del  Carpio,  the 
nameless  outcast,  go  forth  to  defend  it.  You  have 
planted  a  dagger  in  my  heart  not  hecatombs  of  the 
enemy  can  draw  forth.     Adieu!" 

"Now  stay,  my  boy,"  cries  the  king,  laying  his  hand 
on  his  shoulder  as  he  turned  to  go.  "Spite  of  the  past, 
my  heart  warms  to  you.  Take  the  lion  of  Leon  and 
place  it  on  your  shield;  and  when  men  ask  you  by  what 
right,  answer,  *By  order  of  the  King.' " 

At  this  moment  the  tempest  seemed  to  have  reached 
its  climax;  a  loud  and  hollow  reverberation,  like  the 
sound  of  a  blow  upon  a  brass  timbrel,  shook  the 
palace  to  its  foundations  and  the  whole  firmament 
pulsated  with  flame.  But  Bernardo  heeded  not:  with 
his  features  locked  in  a  cold,  impassive  silence,  he 
passed  out. 

CHAPTER    XIX. 
BERNARDO   LEADS  THE  GOIUS  AGAINST  CHARLEMAGNE. 

The  day  is  warm  and  genial,  the  landscape  flushed 
with  green,  and  such  homely  blossoms  as  hawthorne  and 
elder,  briony  and  honeysuckle,  flourish  in  the  fields. 

An  immense  plain  spreads  around,  verdant  with 
pastures,  gardens  and  huerlas  full  of  fruit-trees  and 
clumps  of  planes  and  oaks,   while  across  it,   flung  like 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  1 93 

a  silver  ribbon,  flows  the  current  of  the  Torio  river. 
Hayfields,  ploughed  land,  and  squares  of  maize  and  yel- 
lowing rye,  follow  each  other  in  its  course,  divided  by 
groves  and  wooded  hedgerows  rich  in  roadside  flowers 
— Canterbury  bells,  pink  willow-wand,  the  humble  star 
daisy  and  the  wild  rose. 

Behind  rise  the  turrets  and  spires  of  Leon,  ruddy 
in  colour,  on  a  gentle  slope  crowned  by  the  cathedral 
backed  by  a  waving  line  of  hills  fading  into  the  dark- 
ness of  fantastic  rocks,  rising  to  the  giddy  heights  of  the 
Asturian  mountains  capped  with  snow. 

Nor  is  the  fairness  of  the  earth  less  than  the  bril- 
liancy of  the  sky.  Not  a  cloud  floats  on  the  horizon 
to  mar  the  view  as,  winding  in  and  out  among  the 
trees,  the  dazzle  of  glittering  helmets  glimmers  in  the 
sun;  sleek  war-horses,  cased  in  armour,  curveting  gaily 
spite  of  the  heavy  weight  laid  on  them;  flags  and  em- 
blazoned shields  breaking  through  masses  of  bright 
lances  held  aloft,  battle-axes  and  broadswords — each 
knight  as  he  passes,  followed  by  his  esquire,  trumpeter 
and  page,  riding  forth  on  the  sacred  mission,  led  by 
Bernardo  del  Carpio. 

As  one  man  the  city  follows  him  as  he  rides  forth 
from  the  gate  on  a  white  charger,  the  banner  of  Leon 
waving  before  him,  a  gold  lion  rampant  on  a  field  of 
red.  "It  is  the  standard  of  Leon,"  say  those  around. 
"The  king  allows  him  to  bear  it — a  high  honour  to  a 
nameless  knight  who,  men  say,  never  came  legally  into 
the  world." 

Now  cries  of  "Bernardo!  Bernardo!"  rend  the  air; 
the  brazen  trumpets  sound,  the  shrill  clarion  calls  to 
arms — and  as  he  hears  the  warlike  sound,  the  peasant 

Old  Court  Life  in  Spain.    I.  1 3 


194  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

quits  his  team  to  grasp  a  spear,  the  shepherd  watching 
his  flock  by  running  streams  flings  down  his  crook  and 
rushes  forward,  the  youth  whose  limbs  have  never  felt 
the  weight  of  armour,  the  old  men  who  sit  at  home  at 
ease,  all  swell  the  crowd,  as  mountain  torrents  receive 
neighbouring  rills. 

"We  are  born  free,"  they  say,  "and  free  we  will 
remain.  No  Prankish  king  shall  rule  over  Leon. 
Anointed  cravens  may  barter  the  land,  but  under  the 
lion  who  bathes  his  paws  in  blood  we  will  fight  for 
*our  land.' " 

Three  thousand  men  follow  Bernardo  to  the  field, 
all  animated  with  the  spirit  of  their  chief.  The  secret 
infamy  which  hangs  over  his  birth  he  dares  not  fathom, 
nor  why  his  father  is  concealed,  or  in  what  manner  he 
is  connected  with  the  king!  Some  foul  injustice  has 
clearly  been  done  him.  The  thought  of  it  rankles 
deeply  in  his  soul.  With  this  feeling  comes  a  growing 
hatred  to  Alonso,  who  at  least  has  been  privy  to  this 
concealment,  if  not  the  cause. 

Then,  ashamed  of  permitting  his  own  private  griefs 
to  intrude  on  the  noble  mission  he  has  in  hand,  Bernardo 
calls  to  Don  Favila  to  ride  beside  him. 

"What  will  the  king  say  to  this  armament,  atnigo?" 
are  his  first  words.  "Surely  he  will  now  understand  the 
vainness  of  his  purpose!  In  what  disposition  did  you 
leave  him?" 

"I  think  he  is  much  shaken,"  is  the  reply,  "but 
there  are  secret  reasons.  You,  my  lord,  best  know  his 
mind." 

Bernardo  heaves  a  deep  sigh. 

"Talk  not  to  me   of  him,"   he  exclaims,    "he   is   a 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  195 

hypocrite,  unworthy  of  an  honest  man's  regard."  Then, 
seeing  the  look  of  amazement  on  Don  Favila's  face, 
"Yes!  by  Santiago!  such  is  my  mind,  and  I  will  fling 
my  mailed  glove  into  his  cursed  face  and  tell  him  so,  if 
I  return  from  the  present  adventure." 

More  and  more  amazed,  Don  Favila  listens.  "If  it 
were  not  so  early  in  the  day,  good  Bernardo,  I  should 
think  you  had  quaffed  too  many  beakers  of  wine  to  our 
success." 

"Do  I  look  like  a  man  who  has  wine  in  him?"  an- 
swers Bernardo,  bitterly.  "If  wine  would  drown  my 
care,  I  would  drink  a  sack." 

"Tell  me,"  continues  Favila,  burning  with  curiosity, 
"by  our  long  friendship,  what  is  there  amiss  between  you 
and  King  Alonso?     You  were  wont  to  love  him  well." 

"Then  it  is  past,"  replies  Bernardo,  chafing  under 
the  questioning.  "I  hate  him  now.  It  is  possible  you 
can  judge  of  the  reason  better  than  I.  I  pray  you,  good 
Favila,  ask  me  no  more;  it  is  useless  looking  back." 

Don  Favila,  as  a  prudent  man,  held  his  peace. 
Although  of  a  gentle  and  courteous  nature,  there  was 
that  in  Bernardo  that  no  one  dared  to  cross.  A  look 
of  sullen  wrath  is  on  his  face  he  has  never  seen  before. 
Has  he  at  last  discovered  the  secret  of  his  birth  and  the 
cruelty  of  the  chaste  king? 

Now  the  little  army,  passing  by  pleasant  hedgerows 
and  fertile  fields,  reaches  the  borders  of  the  Ordega, 
crossed  by  a  wooden  bridge  so  narrow  that  much  time 
is  occupied  by  the  passage  of  the  troops. 

A  sound  of  the  approach  of  many  horsemen,  gallop- 
ing rapidly,  comes  from  the  road  they  had  just  traversed, 

13* 


igb  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN    SPAIN. 

and  clouds  of  dust  from  the  dry  soil  sweep  to  the  height 
of  the  tree-tops.  Voices  are  heard,  and  the  roll  of  drums 
and  call  of  trumpets,  but  nothing  as  yet  is  seen. 

"We  are  set  upon  by  foes,"  shouts  Don  Ricardo, 
hastily  seeking  out  Bernardo,  who,  with  a  set  white  face, 
watches,  immovable  in  the  saddle,  the  passage  of  the 
knights  across  the  bridge. 

"Foes,"  answers  Bernardo,  with  a  mocking  laugh; 
"methinks,  Ricardo,  you  are  suddenly  grown  blind  not 
to  recognise  your  countrymen.  These  are  no  foes,  but 
our  own  townsmen  come  out  to  join  us." 

As  he  speaks,  nearer  and  nearer  comes  the  clamour, 
and  louder  and  louder  upon  the  breeze  rises  the  cry, 
"  El  Rey,  El  Rey,"  echoing  back  from  a  thousand  voices 
along  the  line. 

"Yes,  it  is  he,"  says  Bernardo  to  those  around.  "I 
know  him  by  his  helmet,  set  with  gems,  and  the  fur 
collar  over  his  corselet.  By  the  rood,  it  is  well  he  ac- 
knowledges his  wrong." 

And  as  he  turns  his  eyes  upon  Don  Alonso,  such  a 
loathing  possesses  him,  nothing  but  the  cause  he  has  in 
hand  keeps  his  hand  from  his  weapon  to  avenge  his 
wrong. 

Meanwhile  the  king's  arrival  in  face  of  the  army  is 
greeted  by  a  shout  so  long  and  loud  mountain  and  hill 
ring  with  it. 

In  the  tall,  thin  warrior,  with  a  long  white  beard, 
nobly  wearing  a  regal  diadem  about  his  burnished  helmet, 
no  one  would  recognise  the  emaciated  anchorite  who 
scourged  and  starved  himself.  The  words  of  Bernardo 
had  stung  him  to  the  quick.  He  had  cast  off  the  de- 
lusions  which   had   filled  his  brain;    the  French  monks 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  1 97 

were  sent  to  whence  they  came,  the  armed  messenger 
dismissed,  the  pledges  he  had  given  to  Charlemagne 
withdrawn.  Even  the  horror  of  his  sister's  sin  in  the 
person  of  Bernardo,  had  yielded  to  the  nobleness  of  his 
conduct,  and  like  a  man  distraught  suddenly  restored 
to  his  right  senses,  he  had  ridden  out  to  join  him. 

The  shout  of  the  crowd  (for  the  distance  from  Leon 
had  not  prevented  many  of  the  citizens  following  the 
soldiers)  for  a  time  drowned  every  other  sound. 

Again  and  again  King  Alonso  bows  to  the  saddle- 
bow, and  again  and  again  from  three  thousand  voices 
come  the  cry,  "  Viva  el  Rey !  Leon!  Leon  to  the 
rescue ! " 

Nor,  in  this  moment  of  triumph,  as  he  lingers  on 
the  brink  of  the  river,  proudly  contemplating  the  gallant 
body  of  knights,  who  crowd  round  him  to  touch,  if  pos- 
sible, the  nobler  charger  which  bears  him,  his  mailed 
hands,  his  rich  saddle-cloth  and  the  royal  standard  borne 
before  him,  does  he  forget  Bernardo. 

Calling  to  him  in  a  loud  voice  he  commands  him 
to  leave  the  van  of  the  army  and  place  himself  at 
his  side. 

Then  raising  the  crossed  hilt  of  his  jewelled  sword 
before  his  face,  he  utters  a  brief  prayer,  and  turns  to- 
v.'ards  the  thousands  of  eager  visages  upraised  to  his. 

"O  men  of  Leon,"  are  his  words,  contemplating 
them  with  moistening  eyes,  "to  this  brave  knight — 
Bernardo  del  Carpio — I  confide  the  land.  Where  he 
leads,  follow!" 


igS  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

CHAPTER    XX. 
DEATH  OF   SIR  ROLAND  THE  BRAVE. 

In  front  of  the  many  valleys  opening  out  from  under 
the  dark  range  of  the  Pyrenees,  they  met — the  Gaul 
and  the  Spaniard.  The  Emperor  Charlemagne  with 
good  cause  curses  the  fickleness  of  the  King  of  Leon, 
who  had  invited  him  to  inherit  his  kingdom,  and  in- 
stead came  out  to  offer  him  battle.  Personally,  he  is 
not  mentioned  as  taking  part  in  the  battle — indeed,  it 
is  said  he  was  encamped  eight  miles  off,  near  Fontarabia, 
but  he  sent  forward  the  flower  of  his  chivalry,  those 
doughty  paladins,  to  be  sung  by  the  romanceiros  and 
troubadours  to  all  time:  Guarinos,  ferocious  Ferragol, 
Sir  Oliver  the  gentle,  handsome  Gayfor,  and  Roland 
the  brave,  who  went  mad  for  the  love  of  Angelica, 
mounted  on  a  powerful  steed,  which  bounds  and  cara- 
coles as  if  preparing  for  a  tourney,  firmly  ruled  with 
one  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  carries  aloft  his 
famous  sword  Durindana,  followed  by  his  vassals  and 
retainers,  in  short  hauberks  and  upright  caps,  with 
round  targets  like  the  Moors. 

The  two  armies  meet  on  undulating  ground,  de- 
scending from  the  chain  of  the  Pyrenees  in  front  of  the 
Pass  of  Roncesvalles — through  which  the  French  had 
marched  into  Spain  confident  of  victory — a  close  and 
terrible  defile,  narrow  and  deep,  cleft  into  precipitous 
cliffs  following  from  St.  Jean  de  Luz  and  the  defile  of 
Guvarni  on  the  French  side,  among  almost  impassable 
gorges,  which  back  the  city  of  Pampeluna  close  on  the 
province  of  Cantabria,  the  land  of  Pelayo. 

As  a  forest  of  lances  and  spears  set  on  a  plain  of 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  1 99 

gold  did  the  glittering  helmets  look  from  afar  in  the 
radiance  of  the  sunshine,  darkened  by  clouds  of  arrows, 
and  the  blades  of  javelins  and  lances  cutting  the  light 
of  day  as  the  ranks  closed  in  deadly  strife  of  quivering 
spears  and  flying  pennons  falling  round  wounded  horses, 
the  blast  of  trumpets  and  cries  of  dying  men. 

And  gallantly  did  the  King  of  Leon  bear  himself, 
the  jewelled  crown  on  his  morion  shining  out  in  the 
thick  of  the  battle,  Favila  and  Ricardo  fighting  by  his 
side,  when  lo!  a  company  of  Gallic  lords  bore  down 
with  such  force  as  to  leave  the  king  alone,  face  to  face 
with  a  knight  in  dark  armour,  taller  than  the  rest,  a 
steel  helmet  pressing  on  his  fiery  eyes,  and  the  bars  of 
his  vizor  raised  that  all  might  know  him,  as  he  brandishes 
a  sword  no  other  man  can  wield. 

"Where,"  cries  this  terrible  paladin  known  as  Sir 
Roland  the  Brave,  flashing  fire  as  he  whirls  his  good 
sword  Durindana  in  the  air,  "is  that  perjured  Goth, 
Alonso  of  Leon,  who  bids  strangers  to  his  land  and 
seeks  to  slay  them?" 

"If  you  mean  me,"  answers  Alonso,  spurring  for- 
ward, "I  am  here  to  answer  the  charge." 

"Then  make  short  shrift,  false  king,"  cries  Roland, 
"for  traitor  and  felon  you  are  to  Charlemagne,  and  as 
such  you  shall  die." 

In  courage  the  king  is  not  wanting,  but  he  stood 
almost  alone;  several  of  the  knights  about  him  were 
dismounted,  and  swarms  of  the  enemy  were  gathering 
about  them  where  they  lay.  Already  the  swords  strike 
fire,  but  he  is  soon  in  evil  plight;  Durindana  has  cleft 
the  crown  on  his  head-piece  and  wounded  his  good 
charger.     The   weakness   of  his  blows  show  that  he  is 


200  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

no  match  for  such  an  antagonist.  Alonso  staggers  in 
the  saddle,  when  Bernardo,  pounding  through  the  centre 
of  the  Gothic  knights  as  with  the  shock  of  a  thunder- 
bolt, spurs  forward. 

"Shame  on  you.  Sir  Paladin,"  he  shouts,  "as  a 
craven.  Are  you  blind,  that  you  see  not  the  king's  arm 
is  stiff  with  age?  Turn  now  the  fury  of  your  weapon 
on  me,  Bernardo  del  Carpio." 

"I  know  you  not,  vain  boy,"  is  the  reply,  eyeing 
Bernardo  with  disdain.  "Get  you  a  beard  upon  your 
chin  before  you  feel  the  steel  of  Durindana." 

"Come  on!"  shouts  Bernardo,  glaring  at  him  through 
the  bars  of  his  helmet.  "I  promise  you,  you  shall  know 
me  all  too  soon  for  your  glory.  I  am  a  man  in  search 
of  death." 

The  onslaught  was  so  furious  that  blood  flowed  in 
the  first  encounter;  the  horses  were  disabled  by  the 
shock.  To  extricate  themselves  is  the  work  of  a  mo- 
ment, and  on  their  feet  they  fight. 

Then  Bernardo,  round  whose  head  the  good  sword 
Durindana  flashes  dangerously  near,  seizes  a  battle-axe 
from  the  hands  of  a  warrior  lying  lifeless  at  his  feet, 
and  gathering  all  his  strength,  deals  such  a  blow  on  Sir 
Roland  that  the  steel  pierces  down  upon  his  neck,  and 
stretches  him,  mortally  wounded,  on  the  ground. 

Smitten  to  death,  like  a  pious  Christian  he  prepares 
to  yield  up  his  soul  to  God.  But  first,  collecting  all 
his  strength,  he  clutches  his  faithful  sword  and  thus 
addresses  it:  "O  sword  of  unparalleled  brightness,  fair 
Durindana,  with  hilt  of  ivory  and  cross  of  gold,  on 
which  is  graven  the  name  of  God — whom  now  wilt 
thou   call   master?     He  that  possessed  thee  was  never 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  20I 

conquered  before;  nor  daunted  by  foes,  nor  appalled 
by  phantoms.  O  happy  sword,  never  was  a  fellow 
made  like  thee!  That  thou  shalt  never  fall  into  the 
hands  of  a  craven  or  an  infidel,  I  will  smite  thee  on  a 
rock  in  twain."  And  so  he  did,  in  the  throes  of  death 
as  he  was,  cleaving  the  weapon  in  twain  and  flinging 
it  afar.  The  "Breach  of  Roland,"  in  the  Pyrenees,  is 
noted  from  that  day.  Then,  raising  the  horn  slung 
over  his  corselet  to  his  lips,  with  fast-ebbing  breath  he 
blew  a  blast  so  shrill  that  the  sound  reached  even  to 
Charlemagne's  camp,  who,  ignorant  of  the  great  disaster, 
lay  in  the  valley  of  Fuente  Arabia  awaiting  the  issue  of 
the  battle. 

At  length  those  eyes  close  in  death,  called  by  the 
minstrels  "the  bright  stars  of  battle  and  victory/'  the 
hands  drop  which  could  root  up  live  trees,  the  noble 
form  stiffens  as  he  lay  with  outstretched  arms  in  the 
form  of  the  cross,  the  sword-hilt  of  Durindana  and  the 
bugle  by  his  side. 

Not  only  Roland,  but  the  gentle  Oliver  lost  his  life, 
and  the  grim  admiral,  Guarino,  was  taken  prisoner,  so 
that  the  Franks  lost  heart  and  retreated  into  the 
mountain  paths  by  which  they  came.  A  terrible  mas- 
sacre ensues,  led  by  Bernardo,  and  to  this  day  Ronces- 
valles  is  known  as  the  "Valley  of  the  Pass  of  Blood." 

CHAPTER  XXL 

BERNARDO  LEARNS  THE  SECRET  OF  HIS  BIRTH. JOINS 

THE  MOORS. 

And  now  Bernardo  is  home  again  in  the  red-walled 
streets   of  Leon.     Others  long   for  life,  he  has  sought 


202  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

for  death;  but  the  dark  angel  has  not  answered  to  his 
call. 

As  he  paces  along  a  narrow  path  bordering  the 
city  walls,  above  him  the  low  turrets  which  Witica  had 
spared,  looking  over  to  the  green  plains  of  Galicia, 
he  knows  that  he  has  won  himself  a  name  as  great 
as  that  of  Pelayo,  but  a  dark  frown  is  on  his  young 
face,  and  gloomy  thoughts  chase  each  other  through 
his  brain. 

How  changed  from  the  frank  and  joyous  youth  is 
this  dark-visaged  warrior!  He  shuns  all  his  former 
friends;  to  no  one  will  he  speak,  and  least  of  all  to 
the  king,  whom  he  justly  accuses  as  the  cause  of  his 
dishonour. 

"What  matters  the  splendour  of  my  deeds,"  he  tells 
himself,  speaking  aloud,  "when  the  mystey  of  my  birth 
shuts  me  out  from  knightly  deeds?  Who  will  cross 
swords  with  Bernardo,  save  in  the  tumult  of  the  battle- 
field? The  fair  face  of  woman  never  will  shine  on  me; 
no  love  token  touch  my  hand,  no  child  call  me  father. 
O  cruel  parents,  could  not  all  my  achievements  move 
you  to  own  a  son  so  long  forgotten?  Who  are  you? 
Are  you  dead,  to  remain  unmoved  when  the  name  of 
Bernardo  rings  throughout  Spain?  Who  knows" — and 
his  mind  shifts  to  another  train  of  thought — "but  that 
my  father  himself  may  feel  that  his  name  will  dis- 
honour me?" 

"O  Bernardo,  wrong  not  your  father,"  speaks  a  low 
voice  behind  him,  "It  is  not  his  fault,  the  deep  vaults 
of  a  prison  cover  him." 

Bernardo,  who  has  not  realised  that  he  had  been 
thinking  aloud,  turned  with  amazement  and  found  him- 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  20$ 

self  face  to  face  with  Dona  Sol,  an  ancient  gentlewoman, 
camarera  to  Queen  Berta. 

"Now  may  the  saints  bless  thee,  venerable  Senhora," 
he  cries,  seizing  her  wrinkled  hands,  "if  you  can  tell 
me  aught  of  that  which  never  leaves  my  thoughts." 

"All  is  known  to  me,"  is  the  answer.  "The  king 
was  but  a  child  when  I  first  came  to  the  palace,  but," 
and  she  moved  to  and  fro  uneasily,  and  searched 
around  cautiously  with  her  eyes,  "if  I  should  be  sus- 
pected of  having  disclosed  the  secret,  nothing  but  my 
death  would  satisfy  the  king.  These  ramparts  are  too 
public  for  such  speech.  Come  into  the  shadow  of  that 
tower  yonder,  where  no  one  can  hear  us." 

Bernardo,  who  had  faced  without  a  thrill  the  flash 
of  Durindana,  grew  pale  and  trembled  like  a  girl. 

"Be  calm,  Bernardo,"  says  the  lady,  about  whose 
head  and  neck  a  long  lace  mantilla  was  folded,  dis- 
closing among  the  folds  a  worn  and  gentle  face,  marked 
with  the  trace  of  many  sorrows.  "No  base  blood  is  in 
your  veins,  not  a  knight  in  Leon  is  more  nobly  born." 

"Go  on,  go  on!"  urges  Bernardo,  wringing  her  hands, 
"more  than  my  Hfe  is  in  your  words." 

"The  blood  of  kings,"  she  continues,  "is  in  your 
veins." 

"Ha!"  exclaims  Bernardo,  "then  my  suspicions  are 
true?  The  king  has  ever  favoured  me.  Is  he  my 
father?     Why  should  he  conceal  it?" 

"No,  no,"  answers  Dona  Sol,  "the  king,  dear  Bernardo, 
is  not  your  father,  but  you  are  of  his  blood.  That 
keeps  everyone  silent  who  would  dare  to  tell  you,  for  the 
king  has  forbidden  it,  on  pain  of  death!" 

"Then  who  is  my  father?" 


204  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

"Don  Sancho  Diaz,  Count  of  Saldanha,"  answers  the 
Duena,  "the  greatest  noble  in  Leon,  and  your  mother 
is  the  Infanta  Doiia  Ximena,  sister  of  the  king." 

"But  the  king  called  me  Bastard!"  cries  Bernardo. 

"It  was  a  true  marriage  all  the  same,"  replies  the 
camarera,  "only,  as  Doiia  Ximena  was  destined  to  be 
the  Abbess  of  the  Convent  of  San  Marcos,  the  king  con- 
sidered it  an  adulterous  union,  she  being  dedicated  to 
the  Church.  I  should  know  all  about  it,  seeing  I  stood 
by  them  at  the  altar." 

"You!  you!"  exclaims  Bernardo,  passing  from 
astonishment  to  astonishment,  as,  following  her  step  by 
step,  she  drew  aside,  alarmed  at  his  threatening  counten- 
ance.    "Why  did  you  never  speak?" 

"Because  your  mother,  alas!  is  dead,  and  your  father" 
— here  Dona  Sol  stopped,  her  courage  failed.  She 
heartily  wished  she  had  never  undertaken  the  dangerous 
office.  She  was  as  one  who  having  let  loose  the  bul- 
warks of  a  mighty  flood,  stands  trembling  by,  to  con- 
template the  havoc  he  has  made.  How  was  she  to  tell 
the  truth  to  this  impetuous  soldier,  standing  over  her 
trembling  in  every  limb? 

"My  mother  dead!"  repeats  Bernardo  in  a  deep 
low  voice,  his  fingers  grasping  the  hilt  of  a  dagger  at 
his  waist,  his  haggard  face  turned  on  her,  "and  my 
father,  where?" 

"Alas!  I  know  not,"  sobs  the  terrified  Duena,  burst- 
ing into  tears.  "For  long  he  lay  in  the  castle  of  Luna, 
imprisoned,  but  if  he  is  alive  still  I  do  not  know." 

"Then  I  will  speedily  discover!"  says  Bernardo,  and 
without  a  word  he  rushes  from  her  presence. 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  20$ 

Alonso,  returned  from  the  wars,  had  resumed  his 
former  mode  of  life.  With  his  armour  he  had  doffed 
the  sentiments  of  a  man.  He  is  too  old  to  change. 
Again  monks  and  friars  gather  round  him,  and  flatter 
him  with  praises  of  the  virtue  of  continence  which  will 
make  his  name  illustrious.  Again  he  fasts  and  flagel- 
lates himself  as  before. 

The  thought  of  what  he  owes  Bernardo  troubles 
him,  but  not  for  a  moment  does  the  obstinacy  of  his 
resolution  relax.  Never  will  he  acknowledge  him,  or 
liberate  his  father. 

It  is  evening,  the  fretted  towers  of  the  gothic 
cathedral  glisten  against  a  bank  of  heavy  mists,  rapidly 
welling  up  from  the  south.  The  clouds  deepen  with 
the  twilight.  The  lustre  of  a  stormy  sunset  is  fading 
out.  The  sun  disappears,  and  darker  and  denser 
shadows  gather  and  obscure  the  light.  Low  thunder 
rumbles  in  the  distance,  and  a  few  heavy  raindrops 
have  fallen. 

Again,  with  rapid  steps,  Bernardo  traverses  the 
Roman  court  of  the  palace;  again  he  is  challenged  by 
the  guards  as  he  passes.  Neither  Don  Ricardo  or 
Favila  are  there.  Ricardo  was  badly  wounded  at 
Roncesvalles,  and  the  gay  Favila  is  gone  to  lead  a  sally 
against  the  Moors,  those  ever-pressing  adversaries,  not 
to  be  wholly  overcome  for  many  a  long  year. 

But  the  dog  Poilo  is  there,  the  noble  hound  who 
forgets  neither  friend  nor  foe.  Wagging  his  tail,  he 
leaps  forward  and  with  sharp  barks  of  joy  flings  himself 
upon  Bernardo,  Hcking  his  hands  and  thrusting  his  large 
nose  between  his  fingers. 

But  Bernardo  passes  and  heeds  him  not;   nay,   in 


206  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

his  fierce  mood,  he  raises  his  hand  as  if  to  strike  him, 
as  barring  his  desperate  path — but  he  forbears  as  he 
meets  a  keen  pair  of  faithful  eyes  fixed  on  his  face, 
which,  if  a  dog  can  shed  tears  as  some  pretend,  are 
filled  with  moisture  at  the  rude  rebuff;  then,  retiring  to 
a  distance,  his  tail  between  his  legs,  Poilo  sadly  watches 
the  figure  of  Bernardo  as  he  strides  hastily  onwards  up 
the  stairs  to  seek  the  king. 

He  is  seated  at  a  table,  in  company  with  a  monk, 
and  is  at  that  moment  employed  in  turning  over  the 
leaves  of  an  illuminated  missal,  on  the  value  of  which 
he  is  descanting.  The  same  aged  chamberlain  who  so 
stoutly  maintained  the  justice  of  the  king's  conduct  to- 
wards Dona  Ximena,  peaceably  slumbers  in  a  corner, 
his  ivory  wand  of  office  in  his  hand. 

Suddenly  the  monotonous  voice  of  the  monk  ceases, 
for,  raising  the  arras  which  hangs  before  the  entrance, 
Bernardo  del  Carpio  stands  in  the  doorway.  His  cap 
is  in  his  hand,  his  eyes  are  turned  on  the  ground,  but 
his  compressed  lips  and  tightly  knitted  hands  betray 
his  agitation. 

Since  the  battle  of  Roncesvalles,  Bernardo  and  the 
king  have  not  met  alone.  The  debt  of  gratitude  he 
owes  him  has  envenomed  the  king's  mind.  His  tender- 
ness has  turned  to  jealousy  and  suspicion. 

"How  now,  Bernardo,"  he  says  in  an  angry  voice, 
raising  his  eyes  from  the  manuscript,  "do  you  presume 
so  much  on  your  success  that  you  dare  to  come  un- 
bidden into  my  presence?" 

"Perhaps  I  do,"  replies  Bernardo,  advancing  into 
the  room  and  placing  himself  at  the  head  of  the  table 
in  front  of  the  king,   spite  of  the  feeble  efforts  of  the 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  207 

old  chamberlain,  who  has  woken  up  and  endeavours  to 
prevent  it. 

"Perhaps  I  have  the  right." 

"Hal  what  right?"  demands  Alonso,  gazing  at  him 
curiously  from  under  the   bushy  fringe  of  his  eyebrows. 

"The  right  of  your  nearest  of  blood,"  answers 
Bernardo,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  king. 

"Now  curses  on  you!"  exclaims  Alonso  rising,  and 
stretching  out  his  thin  hands,  as  if  to  shut  out  the 
image  of  one  who  represented  to  him  mortal  sin.  "It 
is  a  lie.     Who  can  have  told  you?" 

"No  matter,"  answers  Bernardo;  "suffice  it  that  I 
know." 

"Talk  not  to  me  of  kinship.  You  have  no  name 
save  that  of  the  traitor  who  bore  you." 

"Nay,  drive  me  not  too  far,  old  man.  You  are  my 
king  and  I  have  saved  your  life.  Your  horse  was 
wounded  under  you,  the  sword  of  Roland  was  at  your 
throat,  your  blood  flowed  like  water  when  I  ventured 
mine." 

"Seize  him,  seize  him!"  shouts  Alonso.  "Guards, 
where  are  you?  What?"  turning  to  the  chamberlain 
"do  you  favour  this  braggart?"  But  no  one  stirs.  The 
monk  had  glided  out  at  the  first  entrance  of  Bernardo, 
and  the  old  chamberlain,  whose  peaceful  life  had  never 
led  him  into  scenes  of  strife,  stands  with  open  eyes, 
transfixed  with  terror. 

"Now  listen,  Don  Alonso,"  cries  Bernardo,  mastering 
the  rage  which,  like  a  whirlwind,  had  seized  him  at 
sight  of  the  king.  "Either  on  the  instant  you  promise 
to  give  into  my  hand  my  father,  Don  Sancho  of  Sal- 
danha,  or  I  will  fortify  my  Castle  of  Carpio  and  take 


208  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

service  with  the  Moor.  I  am  at  least  near  enough  the 
throne  in  blood  not  to  serve  a  liar  and  a  hypocrite." 

These  words  are  spoken  slowly.  His  voice  has  a 
strange  ring  in  it.  "Now,  by  this  blade,  which  I  have 
proved  owes  no  lord  but  Heaven  and  me,  King,  Conde 
or  Grandeza,  swear,  King  Don  Alonso,  to  set  my  father 
free." 

"Nay,  Bernardo,"  answers  the  king,  putting  by  the 
weapon  with  his  hand.    "Not  in  this  guise  let  us  speak." 

His  look  and  manner  had  suddenly  changed.  He 
is  roused  into  alarm  at  Bernardo's  threat  of  taking 
service  with  the  Moor,  not  in  his  case  only  but  in  many 
others  the  last  refuge  of  disappointed  patriots. 

"Your  father  shall  be  free,  according  to  your  desire. 
I  give  you  my  royal  word.  On  the  seventh  day  from 
this,  you  yourself  shall  meet  him  at  Salamanca.  Of 
the  imprisonment  of  the  Conde  de  Saldanha  and  my 
treatment  of — "  (even  now  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  pronounce  Dona  Ximena's  name),  "I  am  answerable 
to  God  and  to  the  Church  alone.  My  conscience  ab- 
solves me;  my  reasons  are  my  own.  No  oath  is  need- 
ful," seeing  that  Bernardo  still  held  his  sword.  "Let  us 
part  friends." 

"No,  by  the  Holy  Virgin  of  Compostela,  we  never 
can  be  friends.  You  have  blasted  my  life  and  that  of 
those  who  bore  me.  I  would  die  a  hundred  deaths  ere 
such  a  thing  could  be." 

"Bethink  you  of  my  former  kindness  to  you,"  urges 
the  king.    "You  bore  the  standard  of  Leon  in  the  wars." 

No  answer  comes  from  Bernardo.  There  was  that 
in  the  sudden  change  of  the  king's  demeanour  which 
roused  his  suspicions.     He  liked  not  the  smoothness  of 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  209 

Alonso's  speech  nor  the  smile  he  had  called  up.  Could 
he  be  mocking  him? 

"You  hesitate!"  cries  Alonso.  "Are  you  bold  enough 
to  doubt  a  king's  word?" 

Still  no  answer,  but  Bernardo's  eyes  gather  upon 
him,  as  though  he  would  read  his  soul.  Then,  boldly 
as  he  had  come,  he  turns  on  his  heel,  and  raising  the 
arras,  passes  out. 

Upon  the  broad  corn-bearing  country  about  Sala- 
manca a  pavilion  is  erected,  by  order  of  the  king,  at 
the  spot  where  Bernardo  is  to  meet  his  father. 

With  him  are  Don  Ricardo  and  Favila,  by  the  king's 
command,  and  a  company  of  knights  "to  do  honour  to 
the  meeting  of  a  father  and  long-parted  son." 

As  they  draw  near  the  city  walls,  the  noise  of  tim- 
brels and  trumpets  sounds  on  the  breeze,  and  a  glitter- 
ing band  of  fifty  guards  with  naked  swords,  and  a  troop 
of  knights  wearing  their  vizors  up,  are  seen  advancing 
along  the  Roman  bridge  of  many  arches  which  crosses 
the  river. 

Foremost  among  them  rides  a  splendidly  accoutred 
figure  in  a  coat  of  mail;  long  sleeves  of  crimson  velvet 
fall  from  his  shoulders,  a  shield  with  his  cognisance 
catches  the  light,  a  hood  and  collar  of  mail  conceal  his 
face;  his  lower  limbs  are  sheathed  like  the  body  in 
plates  of  steel,  a  broadsword  and  poniard  hang  at  the 
saddle-bow,  and  his  horse,  a  massive  charger,  is  enveloped, 
like  his  master,  in  plaited  mail. 

When  Bernardo  beholds  this  superbly  armed  cavalier 
slowly  passing  the  bridge,  the  Hnked  bridle  of  his  war 
horse  held  by  two  pages,  and  an  esquire  behind  carry- 

Old  Court  Life  in  Spain.   I.  1 4 


2IO  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

ing  his  lance  and  shield,  "O  God!"  is  all  he  can  say; 
"it  is  the  Count  of  Saldanha.  He  is  coming  at  last — 
my  father,"  and  he  spurs  his  horse  into  a  wild  gallop. 

Already  he  has  dismounted  to  kiss  his  father's  hand, 
already  he  clasps  his  mailed  gauntlet  and  looks  into  his 
face.  Great  God!  It  is  the  livid  countenance  of  a 
corpse!  The  dead  weight  of  Bernardo's  hand  causes 
the  body  to  swerve  and  fall  forward  upon  the  saddle 
bow. 

Alonso  has  kept  his  word,  the  Count  of  Saldanha 
is  given  free  into  his  hands,  but  he  has  been  secretly 
murdered  in  prison,  and  it  is  his  dressed-up  body  that 
appears  before  his  son! 

A  cry  of  agony  comes  from  Bernardo. 

"Oh,  father,  Don  Sancho  Diaz,"  are  his  words,  as 
he  reverently  replaces  the  body  on  the  saddle,  "in  an 
evil  hour  did  you  beget  me:  I  have  given  everything  for 
you,  and  now  I  have  lost  all." 

To  his  stronghold,  the  castle  of  Carpio,  Bernardo 
carried  his  father's  corpse,  and  placed  it  in  the  centre 
of  the  chapel  before  the  altar.  Beside  it  he  kneels,  a 
broken-hearted  man. 

There  lies  the  parent  he  has  so  long  sought  in  vain, 
and  whose  existence  was  a  mystery  to  him  from  his  birth. 
Dead  he  is,  and  yet  to  this  lonely  man  something 
tangible  is  before  him  even  in  his  corpse — something 
with  which  he  can  commune  as  with  his  own. 

After  a  while  rising  up,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  bier, 
Bernardo  unsheathes  the  sword  with  which  he  slew 
Roland  and  saved  the  king  at  Roncesvalles. 

"0  sword!"   he  cries,    "my  trusted  blade.     In  my 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  211 

hand  you  have  drunk  the  blood  of  France,  be  strong 
for  my  revenge!  Never  in  a  more  sacred  cause  was 
weapon  drawn.  My  father  thirsts  for  your  sure  stroke, 
and  his  son  can  wield  it.  Go  up,  go  up,  thou  blessed 
spirit,  into  the  hands  of  God,"  and  he  stoops  to  kiss  the 
dead  man's  hand,  "and  fear  not  that  the  blood  flowing 
in  Bernardo's  veins  shall  be  spared  in  vengeance  on 
Alonso." 

Here  the  romanceros  leave  him.  He  did  not  kill 
the  king,  but  he  made  good  his  promise  of  joining  the 
Moors  in  revenge  for  his  father's  murder,  and  died  fight- 
ing against  the  king. 

CHAPTER    XXII. 
EL  CONDE  DE  CASTILA. 

Castile  formed  no  part  of  the  new  kingdom  of 
Leon  and  was  governed  by  its  own  lord.  And  here  we 
come  on  a  noticeable  history  of  how  the  lion  was  added 
to  the  castle  on  the  arms  of  Spain  by  the  last  Conde 
de  Castila,  Fernan  Goncalze,  the  founder  of  the  line 
of  the  present  dynasty,  as  distinguished  from  that  of 
the  early  Gothic  kings,  who  died  out  in  the  person 
of  Bernardo  the  Third,  the  last  descendant  of  Pelayo, 
A.D.  999. 

Now  King  Sancho  the  Fat,  King  of  Leon,  a.d.  955, 
noticeably  a  heavy  and  lazy  man,  leaving  much  in  the 
hands  of  his  mother,  Dona  Teresa,  is  jealous  of  the 
power  of  Castila,  and  has  joined  with  her  brother,  the 
King  of  Navarre,  in  a  conspiracy  to  divide  it  between 
them,  for  which  purpose  the  count  is  invited  to  Leon  to 

14* 


212  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

attend  the  Cortes,  where  vital  matters  concerning  that 
never-ending  strife  between  the  Christians  and  the  Moors 
are  to  be  considered. 

Fernan  comes,  but  misdoubting  Don  Sancho's  good 
faith,  brings  with  him  so  numerous  a  retinue  of  knights 
and  men-at-arms  that  no  open  attack  on  him  is  possible. 
But  the  Queen  Dona  Teresa,  Hke  a  wicked  fairy,  steps  in. 

"What  matters,"  says  she  to  the  fat  Sancho,  speak- 
ing within  the  recesses  of  the  same  Roman  Palace  where 
Alonso  prayed  and  fasted  and  Bernardo  raged — "What 
matters  how  many  he  brings?  We  must  befool  him, 
flatter,  deceive — thus  you  will  take  him.  Make  great 
show  of  favour  to  him,  my  son,  cover  him  with  false 
words,  and  unsuspecting  he  will  send  his  people  home." 

The  Conde  de  Castila,  say  the  ballads,  was  a  very 
proper  man,  in  the  full  bloom  of  manhood,  tall,  slender 
and  gay;  he  wore  his  mailed  armour  with  a  wondrous 
grace  on  a  perfect  form,  the  red  plume  on  his  casque 
gave  him  a  lordly  air,  and  that  he  was  brave  and 
romantic  his  history  will  show. 

"Good,  my  kinsman,"  says  the  king  to  him  after 
many  soft  phrases,  "you  have  brought  with  you  to 
Leon  the  most  perfect  steed  that  ever  I  set  eyes  on. 
Methinks  if  I  bestrode  him  in  battle,  I  could  laugh  at 
the  Moors." 

"Greatly  it  pleases  me,"  answers  the  Conde,  "that 
my  mare  should  win  your  praise;  she  is  a  noble  animal; 
a  cross  with  an  Arab  mare.  I  pray  you  to  accept  Sila 
for  your  own." 

"Nay,"  replies  the  wily  king,  "that  is  not  fair.  Had 
you  come  with  that  intention,  it  might  be  otherwise; 
but,  as  I  have  induced  you  to  so  generous  an  offer,  let 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  213 

US  fix  a  just  price,  especially  as  the  hawk  you  wear 
upon  your  wrist  has  greatly  caught  my  fancy  too.  For 
horse  and  hawk  we  will  settle  thus:  if  the  sum  fixed  on 
between  us  be  not  paid  by  this  day  year,  it  shall  be 
doubled  every  succeeding  one." 

"As  you  will,  King  Don  Sancho,"  the  Conde  made 
reply.  "I  would  have  given  them  both  freely  to  you; 
but  so  let  it  be." 

Showing  in  this  most  cunning  answer  that,  great 
hidalgo  as  he  was,  he  was  not  above  accepting  such 
moneys  as  came  in  his  way.  Nor  did  the  King  of 
Leon  disdain  to  make  a  bargain  to  his  mind,  which 
gave  him  both  horse  and  hawk  for  nothing,  seeing  that 
he  and  his  wicked  mother  did  not  intend  the  Conde 
to  live. 


Here  they  are  interrupted  by  Queen  Dona  Teresa 
entering  the  chamber,  preceded  by  her  Jefe  bearing  a 
silver  wand  and  followed  by  her  duena.  A  stately  and 
commanding  figure,  even  in  middle  age,  and  splendid 
in  her  apparel.  The  rings  on  her  fingers  are  worth  a 
king's  ransom;  her  widow's  coif  is  sown  with  pearls,  and 
the  edges  of  her  long  robe  trimmed  with  a  dark  fur 
and  jewels.  A  very  imposing  personage.  Dona  Teresa, 
who  rules  both  her  son  and  in  the  palace  with  a  rod  of 
iron.  As  Regent,  she  had  attempted  to  do  the  same 
with  Castile,  but  the  Gothic  nobles  and  the  Gothic 
church  resisted,  and  put  her  down. 

"How  now?"  says  she,  seating  herself  on  a  ponderous 
chair,  heavy  with  carving,  as  the  others  rise  and  make 
low  obeisance,  her  duena,  in  a  stiff  starched  black  robe 


214  ^^^   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

and  high  head-dress,  standing  behind  her.  "Your  talk 
is  of  horses  and  of  hawks,  when  such  serious  matter 
presses  in  the  Cortes?  Have  you  no  better  entertain- 
ment," turning  to  her  son,  "for  the  Conde  when  Almanzor 
reigns  at  Cordoba,  and  harries  us  with  his  troops? 
Hakim,  the  book-worm,  was  an  easy  man,  and  spent  his 
time  in  buying  rare  manuscripts  and  parchments;  but 
this  one  is  a  fire-brand,  and  his  generals,  Ghalid  and 
the  Prince  of  Zab,  take  from  us  much  booty  and  many 
towns.  If  God  aid  us  not,  we  shall  again  become  tri- 
butaries to  the  Moors." 

"Dona  Teresa  the  Queen,"  answers  the  Conde,  bow- 
ing with  the  lofty  courtesy  natural  to  him,  in  reply  to 
this  somewhat  rude  and  boisterous  speech,  "you  cannot 
address  one  more  of  your  own  mind  than  myself.  If 
Don  Sancho  and  I  discoursed  on  lighter  matters,  it  is 
not  that  I  am  unmindful  of  the  growing  power  of  the 
infidels.  For  this  cause  I  am  come  to  the  Cortes.  By 
Santiago,  do  I  not  know  that  your  royal  brother,  the 
King  of  Navarre,  was  lately  brought  to  his  knees  by 
this  same  swarthy  Almanzor,  whom  the  devil  blast!  be- 
cause one  Moslem  woman  was  harboured  in  his  land?" 

"Truly  I  have  cause  to  remember  it,"  is  her  answer, 
and  an  evil  twinkle  came  into  her  eyes.  "What  say 
you,  Conde,  to  a  closer  alliance  among  the  Christians 
with  Navarre,  a  marriage  for  instance,  as  a  tighter  bond? 
The  Gothic  nations  can  only  hope  to  drive  back  our 
enemy  by  standing  by  each  other.  King  Garcia  has  a 
daughter,  very  fair,  and  of  singular  courage  and  accom- 
pHshments.  What  say  you,  whom  Nature  has  formed 
at  all  points  to  please  a  lady's  eye" — (at  this  compli- 
ment the   Conde    again    bowed    low,    and    kissed    the 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  215 

queen's  hand) — "to  an  alliance  which  will  bind  together 
the  powers  of  Leon,  Navarre,  and  Castile?" 

In  the  king's  face,  turned  somewhat  aside,  first  came 
a  look  of  blank  astonishment,  succeeded  by  a  smile  so 
malignant  that  had  Castila  seen  it  he  would  certainly 
not  have  consented. 

"By  my  faith,"  are  the  king's  words,  suddenly  as- 
suming an  aspect  of  the  most  intense  interest,  "a  very 
excellent  proposal.  Refuse  it  not,  my  lord.  Men  say 
in  Leon  that  I  rule,  but  that  Queen  Dona  Teresa  holds 
the  reins  of  state.  Who  better?  Follow  my  example. 
Her  judgment  is  excellent." 

But  the  Conde  saw  not  the  matter  in  that  simple 
light.  With  much  misgiving  he  had  come  to  Leon. 
Hostile  to  him,  he  knew,  was  the  queen,  and  Don  Sancho 
was  ruled  by  her. 

"You  hesitate,"  exclaims  Dona  Teresa,  her  visage 
forming  into  a  dark  frown;  "better  not  to  give  good 
counsel  than  to  have  it  cast  in  one's  teeth." 

"Nay,  Dona  the  Queen,  I  did  but  consider  your 
words.  The  matter  is  too  important  to  be  accepted  off- 
hand." 

"You  bestow  your  own  hand,  I  suppose,  yourself?" 
she  asks  with  a  sneer. 

Again  the  Conde  bowed. 

"Where  else  could  you  give  it  better?  You  are  not 
already  married,  I  presume,  from  a  weariness  in  your 
mind  at  having  so  many  who  would  claim  the  title." 

"It  would  not  become  me  to  say  so,"  put  in  Fernan, 
a  genuine  blush  rising  on  his  cheek. 

"This  alliance  would  certainly  knit  the  Christians 
together,"  urges  the  king,  now  speaking  with  a  certain 


2  1 6  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN. 

vehemence,  "at  a  moment  of  great  danger  to  us  all. 
Almanzor  is  a  leader  of  renown,  backed  by  great 
riches." 

"Why  not  see  the  Infanta  for  yourself?"  asks  the 
queen.  "Start  from  here  on  this  joyous  pilgrimage  of 
love."  Again  that  strange  look  came  into  her  eyes,  as 
she  fixed  them  on  Fernan,  and  again  the  fat  king 
showed  his  contentment  by  a  hidden  glance. 

"To  see  the  lady  would  indeed  be  my  desire,"  the 
Conde  answers,  all  the  same  somewhat  staggered  by 
this  insistance  for  his  advantage  in  those  he  had  good 
cause  to  know  bore  him  no  goodwill.  He  had  hitherto 
little  considered  the  subject  of  marriage.  Still  it  was 
true;  the  alliance  was  for  the  good  of  all. 

"The  idea  pleases  me,"  he  says  at  last — (perhaps 
these  enemies  had  come  to  a  better  mind).  "Thank 
you,  Dona  the  Queen,  and  my  good  kinsman,  Don 
Sancho.  This  occasion  also  assures  me  of  your  friend- 
ship, which  I  have  sometimes  had  in  doubt."  Here 
deprecatory  looks  passed  between  the  king  and  his 
mother,  as  under  protest  at  such  an  assertion.  "Indeed, 
at  Leon,  I  am  half-way  on  the  road.     I  will  go." 

Gaily  Fernan  set  forth  on  his  journey  over  the 
mountains  to  the  Court  of  Navarre.  Not  followed,  as 
he  came  to  Leon,  with  a  warlike  train,  but  with  gorge- 
ously arrayed  chamberlains,  esquires,  and  pages,  covered 
with  silk  and  embroidery,  and  showy  heralds  with  nod- 
ding plumes  flying  the  pennon  of  Castile,  all  mounted 
on  horses  with  fine  and  slender  limbs,  accoutred  with 
saddle-cloths  and  trappings  as  richly  decorated  as  their 
riders. 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  217 

He  himself,  as  Dpiia  Teresa  truly  said,  "was  formed 
by  Nature  to  please  a  lady's  eye,"  graceful,  athletic, 
with  light-brown  hair  curling  on  his  neck  and  a  short 
beard  worn  in  the  fashion  of  the  day,  partly  concealing 
his  regular  features,  expressive  of  a  singular  sweetness; 
with  a  voice  too,  although  well  tuned  to  the  tone  of 
command,  capable  of  modulating  into  the  gentlest  tones 
of  love. 

Thus  he  rode  over  the  plains  of  northern  Spain  and 
through  the  gorges  of  the  mountains,  up  the  rocky  de- 
files where  Roland's  blood  was  shed,  to  the  ancient 
Roman  city  of  Narbonne,  standing  on  a  rock  over  the 
sea,  time-worn  and  rugged  in  aspect,  as  having  borne 
many  a  siege,  for  the  small  kingdom  of  Navarre  was 
ever  industrious  in  war. 

Don  Garcia,  the  king,  feigned  great  joy  at  the 
Conde's  arrival.  His  royal  kinsfolk  at  Leon  had  put 
him  on  the  track,  but  the  redoubtable  courage  of  the 
Conde  called  for  great  caution. 

And  the  Infanta,  Dona  Ava?  From  the  first  moment 
his  heart  was  won. 

Entering  from  her  bower  chamber  into  the  old  hall 
of  the  castle  of  Navarre,  where  reigned  an  atmosphere 
ol  troubadours  and  song,  he  saw  her  taking  her  place 
at  a  banquet  held  in  his  honour. 

A  very  Queen  of  Hearts  she  seemed  to  him,  blandly 
sweet,  with  tender  eyes  of  heavenly  blue,  under  the 
curve  of  faultless  eyebrows,  a  little  dimple  in  her  cheek, 
the  very  home  of  love,  and  smiHng  lips,  curved  like 
Cupid's  bow. 

"By  my  faith!"  muttered  Fernan  to  himself,  as  he 
doffed  his  jewelled  cap,  and  advanced  to  kiss  her  hand; 


2l8  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN. 

"but  she  is  fair  enough  to  move  St.  Anthony  himself. 
Methinks  I  have  been  most  unjust  in  doubting  the  good 
faith  of  Dona  Teresa  in  proposing  to  me  so  sweet  a 
bride." 

And  the  Infanta  loved  him:  and  her  treacherous 
father,  Garcia  Sanchez,  tempted  by  the  prize  to  be  at- 
tained, of  half  of  the  kingdom  of  Castile,  by  all  means 
encouraged  their  frequent  meetings  in  bower  and  hall, 
in  hawking,  falcon  on  wrist,  when  they  rode  together  in 
the  woods,  or  when  the  troubadours  tuned  their  lyres  to 
sing  cancioneros  when  the  sea-winds  were  still. 

How  can  words  tell  of  the  raptures  of  the  Conde? 
His  greatest  enemies  had  procured  his  greatest  joy!  He 
had  only  to  stretch  out  his  hand  to  clasp  a  jewel  with- 
out price.  Tender  delusions  of  youth!  alas!  why  should 
fate  shatter  them? 

One  moonlight  night  they  had  wandered  together  on 
the  battlements  of  the  castle  into  a  pleasaunce  of  ancient 
elms,  interlacing  in  thick  arches  overhead;  the  dueiia, 
who  never  left  them,  disposing  of  herself  apart  at  a  dis- 
creet distance. 

Below  the  sea  lay  calm  and  still,  wrapped  in  deep 
shadow,  save  where  wave  followed  wave,  gently  catching 
the  moonbeams  for  an  instant,  then  falling  back  into  an 
endless  rotation. 

"Oh,  love,  how  fair  is  the  night,"  said  the  Infanta, 
with  a  happy  sigh,  casting  her  eyes  round  on  earth  and 
heaven.     "Methinks  I  have  nothing  more  to  wish." 

But  Fernan  answered  not.  His  gaze  is  fixed  on 
her;  the  pale  tresses  of  her  golden  hair  shining  through 
the  meshes  of  a  jewelled   veil,   her  eyes   melting   with 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  219 

fondness,  the  soft  outline  of  her  face  and  that  adorable 
dimple — from  the  first  sight  of  which  he  dates  his  pre- 
sent transports — intoxicate  his  sense,  and  forgetting  that 
she  is  an  Infanta,  daughter  of  a  king,  in  a  moment  of 
passion  he  clasps  her  in  his  arms. 

"See,  sweetheart,"  says  he,  still  holding  her  in  his 
embrace,   "how  the  moonlight  flickers  on  yonder  trees." 

"Yes,"  is  her  answer.  "Yet,  did  I  not  know  we 
were  safe,  I  could  almost  believe  someone  was  watching 
behind  the  trees.     Let  us  go  back  to  the  castle." 

"I  can  see  nothing  but  you,"  he  answers,  look- 
ing down  at  her.  "You  are  the  very  goddess  of  the 
night!" 

"But  it  is  late,"  she  urges,  rising  to  her  feet;  "if  I 
stay  longer  I  shall  have  bad  dreams.     Let  us  go." 

"Oh,  Ava,  my  Infanta!"  he  murmurs,  pressing  her 
in  his  arms,  "I  could  stay  here  for  ever!  Tell  me  again 
you  love  me!    Repeat  it  a  thousand  times!" 

The  language  of  love  is  the  same  in  all  ages.  This 
was  said  nearly  a  thousand  years  ago,  and  has  been 
repeated  since,  millions  of  times,  but  what  matter? 
When  soul  speaks  to  soul,  however  fervently,  language 
has  limits,  therefore  there  is  a  certain  sameness  in  the 
expression. 

While  the  hot  words  of  love  are  on  his  lips,  the 
branches  of  the  trees  are  parted  by  unseen  hands,  a 
group  of  dark,  muffled  figures  rush  out,  daggers  glitter 
in  the  moonlight,  and  before  he  can  draw  his  sword  he 
is  mastered.  Cords  bind  him  hand  and  foot,  a  mask  is 
placed  upon  his  face,  and  he  is  hurried  below  into  the 
deep  dungeon  of  the  castle. 

The  treason  is  so  vile,  the  act  so  base,  for  awhile  it 


220  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

seems  to  him  like  the  glamour  of  a  dream,  but  the 
weight  of  the  heavy  fetters  pressing  into  his  flesh,  the 
dark  and  narrow  cell  where  light  barely  penetrates,  the 
damp  cold  that  chills  his  blood,  the  shame,  the  loneli- 
ness, the  silence — these  are  no  dreams! 

"Ah,  Ava!  Ava!  you  never  loved  me!"  he  cries  in 
his  anguish.  "Your  baneful  charms  served  but  as  a 
bait.  Now  God  forgive  you,  lady!  my  heart  will  break, 
and  by  your  act!  The  Moors  will  rejoice,  as  they  pour 
over  the  land,  that  my  hand  is  shortened  and  I  cannot 
strike!  Alas!  falseness  is  in  your  blood!  Who  could 
guess  that  those  heavenly  eyes  were  but  as  nets  to  lure 
me?  Ah,  King  Don  Garcia,  is  this  the  honour  of  a 
Christian  knight?  Fool,  madman  that  I  was,  I  knew 
they  were  traitors,  and  for  the  sake  of  a  woman  I  am 
trapped,  like  a  page  seeking  butterflies!" 

Thus  did  the  unhappy  Conde  complain,  returning 
ever  to  the  name  of  the  Infanta.  Her  treachery  was  the 
deepest  wound  of  all. 

Now  it  is  that  the  romanceros  take  up  the  tale  of 
his  captivity,  and  thus  they  sang: — 

"They  have  carried  him  into  Navarre,  the  great 
Conde  de  Castila,  and  they  have  bound  him  sorely, 
hand  and  heel! 

"The  tidings  up  to  the  mountains  go,  and  down 
among  the  valleys! 

"To  the  rescue!  to  the  rescue,  ho!" 

And  the  Infanta?  Need  I  say  that  charming  prin- 
cess did  not  deserve  his  accusations?  But  she  was 
forced  to  dissemble,  lest  his  life  should  be  taken  by  her 
father,  as  cruel  and  remorseless  a  parent  as  ever  figured 
in  fairy  tale  or  song.     Such  monsters  are  frequently  met 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  221 

with  in  the  olden  time,  and  the  nature  of  their  char- 
acters and  motives  are  hard  to  read  by  the  hght  of 
modern  times.  It  is  possible  indeed  such  may  still 
exist,  but  now  they  snare  their  daughters'  lovers  by 
other  means  than  poison  and  iron  chains,  though,  per- 
chance, they  leave  them  as  husbands  as  disconsolate  as 
before. 


CHAPTER    XXm. 
DONA  AVA. 

At  a  great  festival  given  by  Don  Garcia,  Dofia  Ava 
sat  at  the  board.  The  jewels  that  decked  her  coif  and 
neck  but  increased  the  paleness  of  her  eyes.  No  love- 
dimple  dented  her  fair  cheek,  it  had  vanished  with  the 
presence  of  Fernan,  and  the  white  lips  he  had  so  boldly 
kissed  gave  utterance  to  secret  sighs.  She  spoke  no 
word  as  she  sat  in  the  light  of  the  torches  fixed  on  the 
walls,  nor  took  any  heed  of  the  company  of  guests, 
but  leaned  back,  lost  in  dismal  remembrance  of  the 
night  when  her  lover,  with  soft  brown  hair,  who  had 
ridden  across  the  mountains  to  ask  her  hand,  was  be- 
side her. 

On  the  raised  dais  was  a  pilgrim  knight  with  a  red 
cross  on  his  breast,  arrived  from  Normandy,  and  riding 
through  Navarre  to  cross  swords  with  the  Moors  at 
Saragoza.  But  who  he  was,  or  on  what  special  errand 
he  had  come,  he  did  not  reveal  even  to  the  king. 

The  Infanta  took  little  heed  of  him,  but  as  the  feast 
proceeded  and  the  gold  loving-cup  passed  round  from 
hand  to  hand,  and  each  guest  quafied  the  red  wine  in 


222  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

honour  of  the  king,  she  looked  up  and  saw  his  eyes 
earnestly  fixed  on  her. 

Then  a  whisper  came  to  her  ear,  so  low  that  the 
voice  did  not  ruffle  a  hair  of  the  delicate  locks  which 
so  beautified  her  face  and  neck. 

"Fernan  still  loves  you,"  said  the  voice,  "spite  of 
the  little  kindness  you  have  shown  him.  I  have  visited 
him  in  prison;  I  bribed  the  Alcaide  with  many  golden 
bezants;  you  might  do  the  same.  Bethink  you  of  the 
curse  which  will  cleave  to  your  name — worse  than  Don 
Julian's  daughter,  la  Cava — if  his  life  be  lost.  For 
your  sake  he  came  into  Navarre.  It  is  for  you  to  set 
him  free!" 

As  the  pilgrim  spoke  Ava's  cheeks  grew  red  and 
white  by  turns.  She  trembled,  hesitated,  while  silent 
tears  rose  in  her  eyes,  and  fell  one  by  one  on  her  rich 
robe.  At  length,  with  faltering  voice  she  whispered 
back  again,  watching  the  moment  when  the  king  had 
turned  aside  in  earnest  speech  with  some  nobles  from 
Leon,  quaffing  to  their  health  in  a  cup  of  Cyprus  wine 
taken  in  the  last  foray  with  Almanzor  in  the  north, — 

"I  promise  you  I  will.  Tell  me  who  you  are  and 
whence  you  come.  Happy  is  the  prince  who  possesses 
such  a  friend." 

Then  the  stranger  explained  that  he  was  no  pilgrim 
from  Normandy,  but  a  trusty  Castilian  knight  come 
from  Burgos  to  find  his  lord,  and  that  so  well  had  he 
acted  his  part  that  he  had  deceived  the  whole  court 
and  discovered  him. 

The  dungeon  into  which  the  Conde  de  Castila  had 
been  borne  by  the  slaves  of  Don  Garcia  (for  so  much 


OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  22^ 

did  Moslem  habits  prevail  at  that  time,  it  was  common 
for  Christians  also  to  have  Nubian  and  Ethiopian  slaves), 
lay  at  the  foot  of  many  steep  flights  of  stairs  in  the 
very  foundations  of  the  castle.  Overhead  the  sea 
boomed  against  the  walls  in  ceaseless  waves,  bellowing 
with  thundering  uproar. 

He  had  at  first  been  callous  to  his  fate.  In  the 
immediate  expectation  of  a  violent  death,  life  and  its 
interests  had  faded  from  his  thoughts.  The  image  of 
the  Infanta  was  ever  with  him,  but  as  a  bright  phantom 
from  another  world  with  whom  he  could  have  no  con- 
cern, rather  than  as  the  reality  of  a  mortal  love. 

Was  she  true  or  false?  T/iai  lay  in  the  mystery  of 
the  past.  As  a  dying  man  he  had  no  past.  He  for- 
gave her,  even  if  she  were  false.  Whither  he  went  she 
could  not  follow.  He  must  die,  and  leave  revenge  to 
his  people.  Soon  they  will  know  the  treachery  of  the 
king.  His  faithful  subject,  the  seeming  pilgrim,  will 
ride  straight  to  Burgos,  call  together  the  Cortes  and 
declare  war.  But  little  will  that  help  him  when  he  is 
dead!     Alas!  all  fails! 

Day  after  day  he  waited  for  some  sign  from  the 
friend  who  had  risked  his  life  to  find  him.  None  came. 
He  was  forgotten,  and  he  longed  to  die! 

In  the  dead  of  night  he  had  thrown  himself  on  a 
rough  couch  of  ox-hide,  and,  hiding  his  face  in  his 
hands,  groaned  heavily.  At  length  a  feverish  sleep  had 
come  to  his  relief,  when,  starting  up,  it  seemed  that  the 
silence  was  broken  by  a  sound  of  footsteps. 

"Now,  by  the  wounds  of  Christ,  my  hour  is  come," 
he  told  himself.     "King  Garcia  will  take  from  me  that 


2  24  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

life  he  dare  not  attempt  by  combat  in  the  field,"  and  he 
rises  up  to  meet  death  as  became  a  man. 

The  footsteps  came  nearer  and  nearer  and  now 
there  is  the  dim  glimmer  of  a  light. 

"They  come,  they  come;  but  how  cautiously.  Is  it 
that  the  assassins  would  strike  me  while  I  sleep?" 

Plainer  and  plainer  were  the  steps,  and  brighter 
and  brighter  shone  the  light  which  fell  across  the  floor. 
Now  they  are  at  hand,  close  at  the  door.  Deftly  and 
noiselessly  the  heavy  chains  are  loosed.  The  door  opens. 
A  figure,  dim  in  the  shadow,  stands  before  him.  He 
strains  his  eyes  in  the  darkness.  Great  God!  Can  it 
be  true?     It  is  the  Infanta!     She  is  alone. 

"Ava,  my  princess!"  cries  Fernan,  and  such  a 
transport  of  rapture  possesses  him  the  words  will 
scarcely  come,  "you  are  not  false,"  and  he  clasps  her 
to  his  heart. 

Then  she  explained  to  him  how,  following  the 
counsel  of  the  pilgrim  knight  whom  he  had  sent  to 
her,  she  had  bribed  the  Alcaide  with  all  the  jewels  she 
possessed. 

"And  could  you,  Don  Conde,"  says  she,  gazing  up 
into  his  face  from  under  the  folds  of  the  heavy  man- 
tilla which  concealed  her  features,  "could  you  doubt 
my  honour  and  my  faith?  Out  on  the  base  thought! 
Shame  on  your  weak  love!  I  waited  but  the  occasion, 
and  it  came." 

"Oh!  let  me  hear  your  voice,"  sighs  the  love-sick 
Conde,  "though  it  rain  curses  on  me!  Forgive  my  un- 
worthy doubt,  or  that  in  aught  I  misjudged  you.  I  am 
sure  you  pleaded  for  me.  Have  you  softened  the  king's 
heart?" 


i 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  2  25 

"No,  not  a  whit,"  answers  Ava,  with  a  sigh.  "His 
enmity  but  grows  more  dangerous  as  the  time  wears  on 
for  him  to  depart  to  Burgos  to  meet  King  Don  Sancho 
and  his  mother." 

"To  Burgos,  my  capital?" 

"Yes,  they  will  divide  your  kingdom,  and  then 
march  against  Almanzor.  Fernan,  you  have  no  friend 
but  me!" 

"Now  may  the  foul  fiend  seize  them  on  the  way!" 
cries  the  Conde.  "Oh!  that  I  had  a  sword  to  fight! 
Castile  and  Burgos  in  their  hands!  The  dastards!  And 
I  am  bound  here  like  a  slave!" 

"But  I  am  come  to  free  you!"  replies  the  Infanta, 
with  such  courage  in  her  voice  that  already  the  fresh 
air  of  freedom  seems  to  fan  his  cheek,  as  with  deft 
hands  she  loosens  his  fetters.  "The  door  is  open,  be- 
fore you  lies  the  way." 

"And  you,  dear  Ava,"  clasping  her  willing  hand, 
"are  we  to  part  thus?" 

At  this  question  she  hung  her  head,  and  a  great 
blush  mounts  to  her  cheeks. 

"Ah,  my  lord,"  she  whispers,  and  the  little  dimple 
came  back  again,  forming  near  her  lip,  "I  fain  would 
fly  with  you.     For  this  I  came,  never  to  part  again." 

"Then,"  says  the  ballad,  "He  solemnly  saluted  the 
Infanta  as  his  bride  on  brow  and  lip,  and  hand  in  hand 
they  went  forth  together  into  the  night." 

Had  there  been  court  painters  in  those  days  they 
might  fitly  have  depicted  the  Conde,  flushed  with  hope, 
the  Infanta  at  his  side,  feminine  and  sweet,  as  one  of 
those  blonde  images   adored   on   altars  pale  amid  the 

Old  Court  Life  in  Spain.    /.  IS 


226  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

perfume  of  incense,  caracolling  through  the  greenwood 
on  their  way  to  Burgos. 

The  geography  of  the  Conde's  progress  is  rather 
loose,  but  we  will  figure  to  ourselves  a  forest  glade  of 
wide-branching  oaks,  which  had  perhaps  sheltered  the 
advance  of  the  Roman  legions  from  Gaul.  Athwart 
rambles  a  rocky  stream,  a  gentle  eminence  lies  in  front, 
crowned  by  a  group  of  olives. 

As  they  address  themselves  to  the  ascent,  the  figure 
of  a  priest  appears,  mounted  on  a  mule,  equipped  in  a 
strange  fashion,  a  mixture  of  cassock  and  huntsman,  a 
bugle  round  his  neck  and  a  hawk  upon  his  wrist 

"Now  stop  you.  Stop  you,"  he  shouts,  placing  him- 
self full  across  the  way;  "Castila  knows  you  both,  fair 
Infanta,  and  you.  Lord  of  Castila.  I  have  seen  you  at 
the  castle.  What  unlawful  game  are  you  after?  Dis- 
mount, Sir  Conde,  and  give  account  to  me,  the  purveyor 
of  these  forests  for  the  king."  And  the  bold  priest 
presses  his  mule  close  up  to  them. 

"By  the  rood!  Conde  or  no  Conde,  I  will  dis- 
mount to  please  no  man,"  answers  he.  "Nor  shall  the 
Infanta,  as  you  say  you  know  her.  Remove  yourself,  I 
pray,  Sir  Priest,  from  our  way,  or  your  tonsure  shall  not 
save  you  from  a  whipping." 

"That  is  at  my  pleasure,"  is  the  reply.  "But  as 
the  Infanta  seems  to  have  yielded  willingly  to  your 
blandishments,  Conde  de  Castila,  I  stay  you  not  if  you 
pay  me  a  fitting  ransom." 

"A  ransom!"  quoth  he,  "that  is  a  most  singular  de- 
mand from  a  consecrated  priest,  who  ought  to  be  saying 
his  prayers,  instead  of  hawking  in  the  greenwood.  No 
ransom  will  I  pay." 


OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  22 J 

"Then  I  will  teach  you  a  lesson,"  and  the  vagrant 
churchman  raises  his  bugle  to  his  lips.  "A  note  from 
my  little  instrument  and  you  will  soon  lie  again  in 
chains." 

"Do  your  worst,  craven,"  shouts  the  Conde  in  a 
rage,  spite  of  the  whispers  of  the  Infanta,  seated  behind 
him  on  a  pad  of  the  broad  saddle,  her  arms  clasped 
round  his  waist;  "it  shall  never  be  said  that  Fernan 
Gonzales  yielded  to  a  pilfering  clerk." 

No  sooner  were  the  words  out  of  his  mouth  than, 
reddening  with  rage,  the  priest  blew  a  long  loud  blast, 
among  the  ancient  oaks.  At  this  the  Infanta  could  no 
longer  keep  silence. 

"Help,  help!"  she  shouts,  "for  the  Conde  de 
Castila,"  and  Gonzales,  though  embarrassed  with  her 
weight,  rides  fiercely  forward  raising  his  hand  to  strike, 
for  he  has  no  sword.  But  the  treacherous  priest,  setting 
spurs  to  his  mule,  galloped  down  the  glade  at  head- 
long speed,  sounding  his  horn.  The  noise  he  made 
was  heard  by  others — the  rattle  of  horses'  hoofs  came 
rapidly  in  the  wind,  and  a  company  of  horsemen  ad- 
vance with  threatening  aspect. 

"Ah,  now  is  our  time  come!"  cries  the  Infanta, 
"the  vile  priest  has  done  for  us.  We  cannot  fly.  Alack! 
alack!  the  evil  day!" 

"Nay,  comfort  thee,  sweet  one,"  answers  Fernan,  "I 
will  face  them,  though  I  die."  At  which  the  tears 
stream  down  Dona  Ava's  face,  and  she  clasps  her  arm 
tighter  around  him. 

"Now,  by  the  heaven  above  us,"  exclaims  the  Conde, 
"what  miracle  is  this?  It  is  ray  own  dear  standard — the 
banner  of  Castile!    There  is  'the  Castle'  as  large  as  life 

15* 


228  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

on  its  gold  ground.  Long  may  it  flourish,  the  blessed 
sign.  Draw  near,  draw  near,  my  merry  men!  Behold, 
my  sweet  Infanta," — stealing  a  hidden  kiss — "these  are 
my  own  true  subjects!  Castile,  Castile  to  the  rescue! 
Look,  how  bright  are  their  lances!  How  the  sun  shines 
on  the  blades!  Every  sword  is  for  my  Ava;  every  sword 
gleams  for  her!  Ah!  there  is  my  trusty  knight,  brave 
Nuno  Ansares,  who  visited  me  in  prison,"  addressing 
the  leader  of  the  troop.  "Never  did  vassal  better  serve 
his  lord!  The  horn  of  that  robber-priest,  instead  of 
harming  us,  has  saved  our  lives.  Now  to  Burgos  ride, 
ride  for  our  lives!" 

CHAPTER    XXIV. 

MARRIAGE   OF  DONA  AVA  AND   EL   CONDE  DE   CASTILA. 

TREACHERY  OF  DONA  TERESA. 

Burgos  was  reached  without  further  incident,  and 
in  a  few  days  the  marriage  of  the  Conde  and  the 
Infanta  was  solemnised  with  great  pomp  in  the  church 
of  Sant'  Agueda  on  the  hill,  under  a  mantle  of  delicate 
sculpture  which  lined  the  walls.* 

Now  here  it  should  be  said,  as  in  the  fairy  tales — 
"They  married  and  lived  happily  ever  after."  Not  at 
all.     We  are  only  at  the  beginning  of  their  troubles. 

The  rage  of  Don  Sancho  of  Leon  and  King  Garcia 
of  Navarre,  the  father  of  Dona  Ava,  knew  no  bounds. 
Genuine  rage,  for  they  had  both  been  caught  in  their 
own  trap,  a  thing  utterly  unbearable  to  malignant  natures, 
be  they  kings  or  commons. 

*  The  beautiful  cathedral  at  Burgos  was  built  later  by  Fer- 
nando El  Santo,  King  of  Castile. 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  229 

As  to  the  King  of  Navarre,  who  not  only  had  lost 
a  highly  valuable  marriageable  daughter,  but  the  half 
of  the  kingdom  of  Castile,  he  at  once  assembled  a  strong 
army,  under  the  pretence  that  the  Conde  had  feloniously 
carried  off  the  Infanta — a  curious  accusation,  considering 
that  he  himself  had  consented  to  their  nuptials. 

"Let  us  wait  till  he  comes  to  a  better  mind,"  urged 
Dona  Ava,  from  her  palace  at  Burgos,  looking  out  over 
those  rich  plains  which  are  the  glory  of  central  Spain; 
"after  all,  I  am  his  daughter,  he  cannot  harm  me." 

But  this  Christian  point  of  view  was  not  shared  by 
the  King  of  Navarre,  who  from  his  mountains  executed 
such  raids  on  Castile  that  Gonzales  had  no  choice  but 
to  face  him. 

Near  Ogroiio  was  the  battle,  not  far  from  Burgos, 
by  the  river  Ebro,  and  hardly  was  it  fought,  and  victory 
only  gained  by  a  clever  feint,  headed  by  the  Conde  in 
person.  Don  Garcia's  camp  was  seized  and  he  himself 
taken  prisoner. 

Now  face  to  face  they  stand  within  a  tent,  the 
father-in-law  and  son.  The  casque  of  the  king  battered, 
his  armour  bleared,  his  chief  knights  in  a  like  plight, 
prisoners  beside  him — the  Conde  in  front  brandishing 
a  blood-stained  sword,  with  such  a  sense  of  wrong 
gnawing  at  his  heart  as  for  a  time  leaves  him  speech- 
less. 

Then  the  words  of  reproach  come  rushing  to  his 
lips.  "False  king,  did  I  not  come  in  peace  to  Narbonne, 
and  you  gave  me  the  royal  kiss  of  welcome?  Did  I  not 
eat  at  your  board?  Sleep  the  sleep  of  peace  under  your 
roof?  Ride  with  you?  Jest  with  you?  Live  as  man  to 
man  of  the  kinship  we  are  to  each  other?    Did  you  not" 


230  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

(and  here  his  upraised  voice  breaks  into  a  softer  tone 
as  he  names  her),  "give  me  your  daughter,  the  Infanta, 
as  my  wife,  and,  while  her  hand  was  clasped  in  mine, 
her  kiss  upon  my  cheek,  did  you  not  bind  me,  vile  king, 
in  chains,  and  hurl  me  into  a  dungeon,  where  but  for 
her  help,  the  angel  of  my  life,  I  should  have  died  un- 
heeded?" 

To  all  this  Don  Garcia,  with  eyes  cast  on  the 
ground,  answers  not  a  word,  his  armed  figure  defined 
against  the  pattern  of  rich  brocade  which  lines  the  tent 
under  the  light  of  torches. 

"Now  to  Burgos  with  you.  King  of  Navarre,  and  as 
you  did  by  me,  so  be  it  done  to  you!  That  is  bare 
justice!" 

"Ah!  good  my  lord,"  came  the  soft  voice  of  Dona 
Ava  into  his  ear,  as  she  went  out  to  meet  him  with  her 
ladies  to  the  Gate  of  Santa  Maria,  beside  the  river  which 
flows  by  the  walls  of  Burgos — "Remember,  Don  Garcia 
is  my  father." 

"Now  pry  thee  hold  your  peace,  fair  wife,"  is  his 
reply,  "much  as  I  love  you  he  shall  this  time  meet  his 
due.  Nor  shall  he  return  to  Navarre  until  he  pays  me 
a  full  ransom." 

But  like  the  gentle  dropping  of  water  (and  drops, 
we  know,  wear  even  stones,  much  more  the  soft  sub- 
stance of  which  hearts  are  made)  came  the  entreaties 
of  the  Infanta.  After  all  they  were  married,  and  Don 
Garcia  had  suffered  a  grievous  defeat,  which  had 
weakened  him  for  mischief  for  many  a  day! 

So  at  the  end  of  a  year  the  prison  was  unbarred 
and  a  great  festival  held  in  the  old  Palace  of  Burgos, 
of  which  no  trace  remains;  a  throne  glittering  with  cloth 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  23  I 

of  gold,  raised  in  the  midst  of  carpets  and  screens  and 
awnings  of  brocaded  silk,  a  luxury  borrowed  from  the 
Moor — from  whom,  much  as  they  fought  them,  all  re- 
fined tastes  were  acquired;  and  afterwards,  at  the  board 
in  royal  robes,  Don  Garcia  is  seated  side  by  side  with 
Castile  (Dona  Ava,  crowned  with  a  royal  diadem,  be- 
tween), as  they  quaff  the  generous  wine  of  Valdepefias 
in  healths  of  eternal  amity  and  alliance. 


Again  the  Cortes  are  assembled  in  haste,  in  the 
northern  city  of  Leon,  to  determine  conclusions  against 
the  Moors. 

The  Caliph  Almanzor,  coming  from  Cordoba,  had 
penetrated  north  as  far  as  Santiago  di  Compostella,  in 
Galicia,  sacked  the  shrine,  the  very  Mecca  of  Spain, 
where  countless  miracles  were  wrought  by  his  bones; 
and,  insult  of  insults,  pulled  down  the  bells  and  hung 
them  (oh,  horror!)  in  the  Mesqiiita  of  Cordoba,  where 
they  still  remain!  So  that  Fernan  gladly  hastened  to 
obey  Don  Sancho's  summons,  along  with  the  kings  of 
Aragon  and  Navarre.  Years  had  passed,  a  son  had 
been  born  to  him,  and  many  acts  of  courtesy  exchanged, 
as  between  royal  kinsfolk. 

To  recall  the  past  was  by  no  means  in  harmony  with 
his  forgiving  temper.  "Perhaps  he  will  pay  the  debt 
he  owes  me,"  was  his  thought,  "for  my  horse  Sila  and 
the  hawk  he  bought  of  me  so  long  ago;  the  sum  must 
by  this  time  be  a  big  one." 

It  was  night  when  the  council  ended,  and  the  royal 
company  assembled  in  the  hall,  having  exchanged  their 
heavier  garments  for  fanciful  doublets   and   mantles   of 


232  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

tissues  woven  in  Eastern  looms,  set  off  with  fur  and 
gems — graceful  toques  to  correspond,  replacing  helmet 
and  head-piece,  a  feather  lying  low  on  the  shoulder,  or 
peaked  caps  encircled  with  garlands  of  jewels,  the  badge 
of  his  house  embroidered  on  each  knight's  breast.  As 
each  guest  took  his  place  with  that  solemn  demeanour 
common  to  Spaniards,  a  flourish  of  trumpets  sounded, 
a  side  door  opened,  and  Dona  Teresa  appears,  upright 
to  stiffness,  wearing  her  crown  upon  her  head,  her  son 
Don  Sancho  advancing  with  respectful  courtesy  to  place 
her  on  his  right  hand. 

All  eyes  are  fixed  on  Don  Fernan  Gonzales,  the 
youngest  of  the  princes.  Happiness  and  loyalty  looked 
out  of  his  comely  face,  grace  was  in  every  movement, 
as  he  exchanged  compliments  with  his  royal  kinsmen — 
Aragon,  a  broad-shouldered  man,  frank  and  true  in 
nature;  Navarre,  dark  and  preponderant,  his  eyes  bent 
significantly  on  his  son-in-law;  and  his  nephew  of  Leon, 
Don  Sancho  the  Fat,  grown  so  obese  he  moves  in  his 
royal  robes  with  difficulty. 

The  feast,  spread  on  oaken  tables  covered  with 
scarlet  cloths,  blazed  with  the  sheen  of  precious 
candelabra,  cups  inlaid  with  rubies,  and  silver  figures 
trimmed  with  posies  of  flowers,  aromatic  herbs  and 
green  boughs  from  the  wood,  the  walls  hung  with 
damascened  draperies  and  a  fair  Moorish  carpet  on  the 
floor.  The  fish,  flesh,  and  fowl  served  in  heavy  silver 
platters  are  offered  entire  to  each  guest,  who  with  his 
dagger  cut  his  own  portion,  drinking  from  silver  goblets 
placed  at  his  side. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  banquet,  to  the  blare  of 
trumpets,  King  Don  Sancho   rises   to   lead   his   mother 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  233 

to  her  retiring  room,  with  the  same  state  as  she  had 
entered. 

Already  the  kings  of  Navarre  and  Aragon  had 
passed  on,  and  the  Conde  de  Castile  was  preparing  to 
follow  when  an  armed  hand  was  placed  on  his 
shoulder  and  a  voice  uttered  in  his  ear:  "You  are  my 
prisoner." 

"Your  prisoner?"  cried  he,  looking  round  to  behold 
a  circle  of  armed  men,  who  had  silently  gathered  be- 
hind his  chair  as  he  was  in  the  act  of  making  obeisance 
to  the  queen,  "by  my  troth!  this  is  an  idle  jest.  You 
have  mistaken  your  man,  my  masters.  Look  else- 
where." 

"Not  at  all,"  cries  Queen  Dona  Teresa,  disengaging 
her  hand  from  that  of  the  king,  the  old  malignant 
smile  glittering  in  her  black  eyes.  "Did  you  think.  Sir 
Conde,  we  were  as  green  as  you,  who  come  unarmed  a 
second  time  among  your  foes?  The  bird  that  had  flown 
is  recaptured!  Ha!  ha!"  and  she  gave  a  bitter  laugh. 
"I  think  I  can  prophesy  you  will  not  escape  this  time! 
The  dungeons  of  Leon  are  better  guarded  than  those 
of  Narbonne!" 

"Queen  Dona  Teresa,"  is  his  answer,  his  arms  already 
bound  by  fetters,  "I  take  no  shame  for  my  lack  of  sus- 
picion. Rather  is  it  for  you,  so  royally  born,  to  blush 
at  such  baseness.  You,"  and,  spite  of  himself,  his  eyes 
flamed  with  rage  as  he  reaHsed  that  he  had  again  fallen 
into  the  power  of  his  remorseless  kinsfolk,  "you  are  a 
disgrace  to  the  royal  lineage  you  represent.  See,  even 
the  king,  your  son,  casts  down  his  eyes.  Don  Sancho 
is  ashamed  of  his  mother!" 


234  ^^^   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

Stung  by  his  reproaches  the  queen  raises  her  hand 
as  a  signal  to  the  guards  to  bear  him  away. 

"What  manner  of  man  is  this?"  she  says,  turning 
to  the  king,  who,  though  he  had  joined  in  the  con- 
spiracy, now  stood  irresolute  and  pale,  a  silent  witness 
to  his  mother's  treachery.  "He  dares  to  jeer  at  me 
with  the  chains  about  his  neck.  But  a  long  life  passed 
in  a  Gothic  dungeon  will  bring  down  his  pride.  Fear 
not,  my  son,  what  can  he  do?  When  the  half  of  his 
kingdom  is  in  your  hands  you  will  thank  me." 

"But  our  kinswoman  the  Infanta  will  offer  a  large 
ransom.      Can  you  refuse  her?" 

"Refuse!"  retorts  the  queen,  her  tall  figure  drawn 
up  to  its  full  height;  "there  is  no  treasure  in  the  world 
that  shall  buy  off  the  Conde  de  Castile.  His  death 
alone  will  satisfy  me." 

And  with  a  menacing  gesture  in  the  direction  by 
which  he  had  disappeared,  she  swept  out  of  the  hall  as 
she  had  come,  followed  by  her  retinue. 

CHAPTER    XXV. 

DONA  AVA   OUTWITS   DON  SANCHO   AND   RELEASES  HER 

HUSBAND. 

Time  passed  and  a  new  element  makes  itself  felt  in 
the  struggle  between  the  Christians  and  the  Moors.  The 
powerful  tribe  of  the  Berbers  had  fastened  Hke  leeches 
on  the  Gothic  lands  of  the  north,  and  Almanzor,  by  his 
constant  attacks  in  the  south,  had  paralysed  the  kings 
of  Leon  and  Navarre  into  mere  tributaries.  But  selfish 
and  unloyal  as  they  are,  Dona  Teresa  and  the  kings  of 
Leon  and  Navarre  never  lose  sight  of  their  determina- 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  235 

tion  to  possess  Castile,  and  instead  of  joining  heartily 
against  a  common  enemy  they  each  summon  every  lord 
and  vassal  they  possess  to  appear  in  arms  to  march 
against  Burgos. 

Don  Sancho  at  least  understood  his  real  position, 
and  would  willingly  have  accepted  the  large  ransom 
offered  by  the  Infanta  for  her  lord,  but  his  mother  was 
not  to  be  persuaded.  His  dark-browed  uncle  of  Navarre, 
too,  was  as  violent  and  as  short-sighted  as  she,  so  that 
Don  Sancho  could  only  offer  up  fervent  prayers  to 
Santiago,  the  patron  of  Spain,  whose  shrine  at  Com- 
postella  had,  to  his  everlasting  shame,  been  so  ill-de- 
fended. 

Would  the  celestial  knight  again  appear  on  his  milk- 
white  charger  clad  in  radiant  mail  and  ensure  a  victory 
as  when  King  Ramiro,  his  predecessor,  refused  to  pay 
"the  Maiden  Tribute"  exacted  by  the  Caliph?  Would 
he  come?  And  never  did  sovereign  put  up  more  fervent 
Ora  pro  nobis  Sancta  Maria  than  the  fat  king,  and  in- 
vocations to  all  the  calendar  of  saints. 


In  the  midst  of  his  devotions  a  scratch  is  heard  at 
the  door,  the  curtain  is  drawn  aside,  and  the  head  of  a 
Jefe  appears.  At  an  impatient  motion  of  the  king, 
indicating  that  he  would  not  be  disturbed,  the  Jefe 
bows  low. 

"Good,  my  lord,"  are  his  words,  "what  am  I  to  do? 
Here  is  a  pious  pilgrim  bound  for  Compostella,  earnestly 
desiring  to  see  your  Grace." 

"For  Compostella,"  answers  the  king.  "Ah!  he  is 
welcome,  admit  him  at  once.     He  can  tell  me,  on  his 


236  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

return,  in  what  precise  condition  the  sanctuary  is  left. 
That  last  raid  of  the  Moor  Hes  heavy  on  my  soul." 

In  a  few  moments  the  pilgrim  stands  before  him, 
his  face  concealed  by  a  close-fitting  cap,  heavily  charged 
with  drapery,  which  he  wore  on  his  head. 

"In  what  matter,"  asks  Don  Sancho,  with  a  gracious 
smile,  "can  the  King  of  Leon  advantage  you,  good 
pilgrim?    If  it  is  within  my  power,  command  me." 

"My  lord,"  answers  the  pilgrim,  in  tones  which  fell 
caressingly  on  the  ear,  "I  humbly  thank  your  Grace.  I 
am  bound  for  Compostella,  to  fulfil  a  vow  concerning 
your  prisoner,  the  Conde  de  Castila." 

"The  Conde  de  Castila!"  exclaims  the  king,  half 
starting  from  his  chair.  "He  is  clean  forgotten.  As 
well  talk  of  a  dead  man." 

"I  crave  your  pardon  if  I  have  said  aught  amiss, 
but  the  Conde  has  caused  deep  sorrow  to  me.  In  my 
wrath  I  invoked  a  curse  upon  him,  in  the  name  of  the 
blessed  Saint,  and  now  I  am  bound  to  render  thanks 
for  his  death." 

"Death!"  ejaculates  Don  Sancho,  turning  pale,  "who 
talks  of  his  death?" 

"I,"  answers  the  pilgrim,  with  a  singular  decision. 
"I  know  that  the  death  of  the  Conde  is  near!" 

"By  whose  hand?"  demands  the  king,  greatly  ex- 
cited. (Did  this  holy  person  know  of  some  secret  con- 
spiracy of  Dona  Teresa  to  assassinate  him,  and  had  he 
come  to  reveal  it?) 

"By  mine,"  whispers  the  pilgrim,  mysteriously  ap- 
proaching him.  "I  have  about  me  a  subtle  poison,  the 
venom  of  snakes,  given  me  by  a  Berber.  It  never  fails; 
silently  it  extinguishes  life.     But  it  must  be  properly 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  237 

administered.  Lead  me  to  the  prison — I  will  answer  for 
the  rest." 

Even  Don  Sancho  was  staggered  by  the  proposal  of 
this  cold-blooded  pilgrim,  and  replies  with  caution, — 

"Should  this  prove  true,  I  shall  not  be  unmindful  of 
the  Saint's  claims  on  me.  But,  holy  pilgrim,  much  as  I 
honour  your  design  and  wish  you  success,  in  these  war- 
Hke  times  I  must  demand  some  sign  to  assure  me  of 
your  truth." 

"Signs  shall  not  be  wanting,  O  King,"  answers  the 
pilgrim,  in  whose  voice  an  eager  sweetness  seemed  to 
penetrate.  "The  Holy  Apostle  has  himself  appeared  to 
me  in  a  vision  and  unfolded  deep  mysteries  concerning 
Navarre  and  Leon.  The  time  is  not  far  off  when  Castile 
and  Leon  will  be  united  under  one  crown,  and  that  union 
will  end  the  Mussulman  rule  in  Spain." 

"O  great  and  holy  seer!"  ejaculates  Sancho  the  Fat, 
folding  his  hands,  greatly  impressed  by  what  appeared 
the  complete  fulfilment  of  his  utmost  ambition,  "much 
do  I  honour  you.  Disclose,  if  not  bound  by  a  vow, 
what  is  your  name,  that  I  may  impart  it  to  my  mother, 
Dona  Queen  Teresa." 

To  this  request  the  pilgrim  paid  no  heed. 

"Perhaps  you  will  tell  me  if  the  death  of  the  Conde 
prefigures  these  events?" 

"By  the  aid  of  Santiago,  yes,"  is  the  answer.  "Such 
is  the  prophecy  I  have  to  impart." 

Now  had  Don  Sancho  been  less  eager  to  rid  himself 
of  Gonzales  by  every  means,  he  would  have  noted  the 
violent  agitation  which  shook  the  pilgrim's  frame. 

To  poison  a  sovereign  in  prison — and  a  kinsman  to 
boot — was   a  serious   undertaking.     Already  the  words 


238  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

of  refusal  were  on  Sancho's  lips  when  the  curtains  of 
the  apartment  fly  open  and  Dona  Teresa  rushes  in. 

"What  is  this  I  hear?"  cries  this  imperious  woman, 
who  had  been  listening  outside,  her  cruel  face  darkened 
by  anger.  "Shame  on  your  cowardice,  Don  Sancho; 
you  are  no  son  of  mine.  What!  you  would  refuse  the 
proposal  of  this  worthy  pilgrim?  I  understand  and 
applaud  him.  To  kill  the  Conde  de  Castile  is  a  work 
of  mercy,  for  by  his  death  the  lives  of  thousands  will  be 
spared  on  the  battle-field." 

In  the  presence  of  his  mother  the  fat  king  became 
mute.  Against  his  better  judgment  he  consents  to  the 
death  of  the  Conde. 


Again  we  come  upon  Fernan  in  prison,  a  very  un- 
likely place  for  so  brilliant  a  cavalier,  but,  alas!  adverse 
destiny  had  again  doomed  him  to  pass  many  months  in 
this  second  dungeon — much  more  rough  and  dismal  than 
the  prison  of  Narbonne  as  the  old  city  of  Leon,  with  its 
Gothic  traditions,  was  more  uncouth  and  uncivilised  than 
the  capital  of  Navarre. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asks  in  great  surprise  as  a  pil- 
grim is  ushered  in.  "Nor  need  I  ask;  coming  from  the 
vile  king  you  can  only  be  a  foe." 

"I  am  your  friend,"  answers  a  voice  that  struck  like 
music  on  his  ear,  "your  best,  your  only  friend,  my  lord 
and  husband,"  and  as  the  disguise  fell  to  the  ground 
the  faithful  Infanta  stands  before  her  lord. 

We  will  pass  over  their  transports.  A  decent  veil 
must  conceal  the  mysteries  of  married  life.  Naturally 
the  first  question   he  asked  was  how  she  came  there? 


i 


OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  239 

Together  they  laughed  while  she  explained  the  mur- 
derous purpose  of  the  wicked  queen. 

"But  time  speeds,"  she  says,  tearing  herself  from  his 
arms.  "You  must  fly.  The  courage  of  our  good  Cas- 
tilians  is  damped  by  your  long  absence.  Not  a  moment 
must  be  lost." 

"What!  in  broad  daylight?"  asks  he.  "Is  it  so  easy 
a  thing  to  go?"  and  he  gives  a  bitter  laugh. 

"No,  love,  most  difficult,  but  we  must  change  our 
clothes!  I  am  you,  and  you  are  me.  In  that  bed," 
pointing  to  a  straw  pallet,  "I  stretch  myself  to  die.  ,  I 
have  swallowed  the  poison,  and  you,  my  noble  husband, 
in  the  pilgrim's  dress,  speed  to  Burgos.  Once  under 
the  gateway,  you  are  safe.  Oh!  greet  them  well,  my 
dear  ones,"  and,  spite  of  herself,  as  she  thought  of  her 
child,  silent  tears  gather  in  her  eyes. 

"But,  Ava,"  he  exclaims,  "greatly  as  I  honour  your 
courage,  your  fortitude,  your  skill,  ask  me  not  to  return 
to  Castile  by  such  means.  My  sweet  wife,  the  stars  in 
their  courses  must  have  willed  that  I  should  die;  leave 
me  to  my  fate." 

"Never!"  cries  the  vaHant  woman.  "Here,"  and  she 
plunges  her  hand  into  her  bosom,  "is  the  poison.  If 
you  do  not  fly,  I  will  swallow  it  before  your  eyes." 

A  gesture  of  horror  was  his  reply. 

"Besides,"  she  continues,  her  face  lighting  up.  "What 
have  I  to  fear?  Danger  to  my  life  there  is  none!  You 
cannot  imagine  my  own  aunt  would  murder  me!  Away, 
away,  or  some  fatal  accident  may  hinder!" 

Meanwhile,  what  pen  shall  paint  the  anxiety  of  the 
king?    How  minute  by  minute  he  pictured  each  detail 


2^0  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

of  the  agonies  of  the  expiring  Conde.  Truly  the  pos- 
session of  Castile  seemed  to  his  guilty  mind  at  that 
moment  too  small  a  boon  to  compensate  for  the  throes 
of  his  guilty  conscience.  Had  such  tortures  continued, 
Sancho  would  never  have  come  down  to  posterity  with 
the  surname  of  "the  Fat,"  but  rather  have  melted  into 
a  shadow  in  the  land  of  dreams!  At  last,  unable  any 
longer  to  bear  such  suspense,  he  called  a  page,  and  com- 
manded that  the  pilgrim  should  be  brought  before  him. 

"He  is  gone,"  replies  one  of  the  officers  of  the  prison, 
who  had  presented  himself  to  reply. 

"Gone!"  shouts  Sancho,  "without  my  leave?  What 
does  this  mean?    Is  the  Conde  safe?" 

"Safe,  indeed,"  answers  the  officer;  "but  half  an 
hour  ago  I  carried  him  a  meal,  by  special  order,  and  a 
good  one." 

"A  meal?"  quoth  the  king,  utterly  amazed.  "Could 
he  eat?" 

"Surely,"  is  the  answer,  "and  glad  he  seemed  to 
get  it." 

"Did  he  not  appear  to  suffer?  Was  he — well — did 
nothing  ail  him?" 

"Nothing,  my  liege.  I  never  saw  a  prisoner  more 
deboiinaire,  but  he  seems  grown  strangely  short  to  my 
eyes;  he  certainly  has  dwindled." 

"You  are  a  fool!"  cries  the  irritated  king;  "I  must 
look  into  this  matter  myself.    Bring  him  to  my  presence." 

"By  the  rood,  but  he  does  seem  strangely  altered," 
muttered  the  king,  as  the  prisoner  stood  before  him. 
"Surely" — and  a  suspicion  did  shoot  through  his  mind, 
to  be  dismissed  at  once  as  ridiculous,  as  they  approach 
each  other. 


OLD    COURT  LIFE   L\   SPAIN.  24 1 

"Well,  Sir  Conde,  are  the  prisons  of  Leon  better 
guarded  than  those  of  Narbonne?"  he  asks,  with  a 
sneer. 

"Much  better,  Sir  King,  one  can  escape  more  easily. 
For  a  sovereign  so  versed  in  plots  and  conspiracies — 
murder  even" — (at  this  word  the  king  gave  a  great 
start) — "you  are  marvellously  at  ease." 

King  Sancho  became  so  bewildered,  his  head  was 
going  round.  Was  he  bewitched?  Was  this  the  Conde 
or  not?    And  if  not,  who? 

Then  Dona  Ava,  speaking  in  her  own  natural  voice, 
broke  out  into  peals  of  laughter. 

"Surely,  Don  Sancho,  a  bachelor  Hke  you  cannot  be 
so  ungallant  as  to  imprison  a  lady?" 

"A  lady!  A  woman!  God's  mercy!  what  does  this 
mean?    Who  has  dared  to  deceive  me?" 

"I,"  answers  the  Infanta.  "Shower  your  wrath  on 
me,  your  kinswoman.  May  I  not  be  a  deceiver  when 
so  many  of  my  blood  excel?  The  queen,  for  instance? 
Now  look  at  me,  Sancho,  and  let  this  folly  end." 

And  the  king  did  look,  and  into  a  most  towering 
passion  he  fell,  using  more  bad  language  than  I  care  to 
repeat. 

"A  curse  upon  you!"  are  his  first  intelligible  words. 
"Where  is  that  villain,  your  husband?" 

"In  Castile,"  she  answers,  "or  far  on  the  way. 
Never  fear,  he  will  soon  return  to  settle  accounts  with 
you." 

"False  woman,"  and  the  king,  fuming  with  a  sense 
of  intolerable  wrong  at  having  been  made  such  a  fool 
of,  lifts  his  hand  as  if  to  strike  her,  "learn  to  fear  my 
vengeance!" 

Old  Court  Life  in  Spain.  /.  I6 


242  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

"Not  I,"  is  her  answer,  laughing  again.  "You  dare 
do  nothing  to  me,  and  my  loved  lord  is  free,  skimming 
like  a  fleet  bird  over  the  plains.  I  fear  you  not,  you 
dastard  king!" 

Consigning  the  Infanta  into  the  hands  of  the  palace 
guards,  Don  Sancho  rushed  off  to  the  apartments  of  the 
queen.  For  once  that  wicked  woman  was  powerless. 
No  one  dared  harm  Dona  Ava,  specially  as  rapid  news 
soon  spread  of  the  wild  joy  with  which  Fernan  had  been 
received  in  Burgos,  and  that,  at  the  head  of  his  army, 
he  was  marching  on  Leon. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  dark  King  of  Navarre,  hard 
pressed  by  the  Moors,  executing  forays  into  the  north, 
as  the  safety  of  his  daughter  was  at  stake,  refused  to 
use  his  troops  for  her  capture;  thus  the  King  of  Leon 
was  left  alone  to  bear  the  brunt  of  the  attack,  pillaging, 
demolishing  and  burning  in  true  mediaeval  style. 

But  Queen  Dona  Teresa  still  held  good. 

"Keep  her  close.  She  shall  not  go,  without  the 
ransom  of  half  his  kingdom,"  were  her  words. 

"Now,  by  Santiago!"  exclaims  the  exasperated  king, 
"ransom  or  no  ransom,  she  shall  go.  You  ruined  the 
kingdom  in  my  father's  time,  but,  by  heaven!  you  shall 
not  play  the  same  game  with  me!" 

For  once  the  fat  king  insisted.  The  Condesa  de 
Castila  is  to  be  restored  to  her  husband,  on  condition 
of  the  withdrawal  of  his  troops.  All  seems  accommo- 
dated when  an  unexpected  difficulty  arises. 

That  little  account  for  the  horse  and  the  hawk, 
which  had  so  pleased  the  King  of  Leon  on  his  cousin's 
first  visit,  accepted  on  the  condition  of  making  payment 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  243 

in  a  year  or  of  doubling  the  price,  had  never  been 
settled,  and  it  had  grown  so  enormous  that  King  Sancho 
finds  himself  at  a  loss  to  find  the  money.  Convenient 
Jews  did  not  exist  in  those  days  as  we  read  of  later  in 
the  time  of  the  Cid.  Now,  even  a  royal  debtor  looks 
round  in  vain  for  help. 

It  was  in  vain  that  King  Sancho  cursed  the  horse 
and  cursed  the  hawk,  then  cursed  them  both  together, 
that  did  no  good,  the  debt  remained  unpaid.  In  this 
world  from  little  causes  spring  great  events.  That  horse 
and  hawk,  so  innocently  purchased  from  the  bright- 
faced  Conde,  were  finally  the  cause  of  the  independence 
of  Castile.  Not  able  to  discharge  the  debt.  King  Don 
Sancho  agreed  to  free  Castile  from  all  vassalage  to  Leon. 
And  the  Conde  and  the  Infanta  rode  back  in  triumph 
to  Burgos,  as  the  founders  of  that  dynasty  which  be- 
came the  most  powerful  and  glorious  of  the  Peninsula, 
to  merge  at  last  in  the  royal  crown  of  Spain. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 
THE   CID    1037. 

Now  we  come  upon  a  larger  view,  a  more  extended 
hoiizon  of  Old  Court  Life,  hitherto  shut  up  in  the 
pastoral  city  of  Leon. 

Don  Fernando  El  Magno  is  king.  He  has  trans- 
ferred the  Christian  capital  to  Burgos  on  succeeding  to 
the  states  of  Leon,  Castile,  and  Galicia  by  the  death  of 
his  brother-in-law,  Bernardo  the  Third,  in  right  of  his 
wife.  Dona  Sancha. 

Succeeded  is  hardly  the  fit  word,  for  Fernando  actually 

16* 


244  ^L^  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

slew  Bernardo  in  the  battle  of  Tamara,  clearing  thus  for 
himself  the  way;  for  Bernardo's  sister  Sancha  was  the 
last  of  the  second  line  of  the  Gothic  kings  descended 
from  Pelayo. 

From  the  time  of  Fern  an  Gonzales,  Castile  became 
a  kingdom  instead  of  a  county,  as  the  Conde  would 
have  had  it,  only  he  died  too  soon;  and  though  still 
mixed  up  in  continual  battles  with  the  Moors  about 
Saragoza,  Toledo,  Merida,  Samego  and  Badajos  (each 
town  and  city  a  small  kingdom  of  its  own),  the  greater 
part  of  the  north- centre  of  Spain  belonged  to  the  Chris- 
tians, rough  warriors  for  the  most  part  and  fond  of 
fighting,  of  little  education,  narrow-minded,  poor  and 
rapacious.  So  poor  indeed  and  rapacious  that  they 
constantly  served  the  Moors  against  themselves  as  con- 
do  ttieri,  or  mercenaries,  as  is  heard  of  later  in  French 
and  Italian  wars. 

Now  the  Moors  might  be  cruel  and  bloodthirsty,  but 
their  crimes  were  those  of  a  highly  civilised  race,  the 
very  salt  of  the  earth  compared  to  the  Gothic  Spaniards 
— only  the  Moors  were  falling  gradually  asunder  by 
reason  of  dissensions  amongst  the  various  races  of  which 
the  nation  was  composed. 

So  the  Christians  grew  bold  as  the  others  waxed 
weak,  and  though  Fernando  El  Magno  committed  the 
folly  of  dividing  his  kingdom  among  his  five  children,  it 
all  came  together  again  under  his  unscrupulous  successor, 
Alfonso  El  Valiente,  sixth  of  that  name  (i  173.) 

Fernando  El  Magno  was  out  and  out  the  most 
powerful  king  that  had  reigned  in  Spain  since  the  time 
of  Roderich.  He  held  an  iron  grip  on  the  Moors,  with 
great  cities  tributary  to  him.     In  fact,  it  was  only  the 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  245 

payment  of  heavy  tribute  which  kept  them  in  possession 
so  long.  Money  was  money  in  those  days,  from  what- 
ever source  it  came,  and  in  the  impoverished  north  there 
was  Httle  of  it. 

Fernando  was  a  good  king,  according  to  his  Hghts, 
upon  whose  conscience  the  murder  of  his  brother-in-law 
Bernardo  lay  lightly.  Had  he  not  slain  Bernardo,  Ber- 
nardo would  undoubtedly  have  killed  him,  in  which 
case  royal  murder  comes  under  the  head  of  self-defence. 
So  he  reigned  happily  at  Burgos,  and  had  born  to  him 
a  numerous  family.  Dona  Urraca,  the  Infanta,  was  his 
eldest  child,  a  most  excellent  lady  of  good  customs  and 
beauty,  the  Infante  Don  Sancho,  who  was  to  make  much 
noise  in  the  world,  was  his  heir,  and  Don  Alfonso  and 
Don  Garcia  were  his  younger  sons. 

Fernando  put  them  all  to  read  that  they  might  gain 
understanding,  and  he  made  his  sons  knights  to  carry 
arms  and  know  how  to  demean  themselves  in  battle, 
also  to  be  keen  huntsmen.  Doiia  Urraca  was  brought 
up  in  the  studies  becoming  dames,  so  that  she  might  be 
instructed  in  devotion  and  all  things  which  it  behoved 
an  Infanta  to  know. 

But  there  is  one  fact  which  makes  the  name  of 
Fernando  remembered  to  all  time,  for  in  his  reign  was 
born  at  Burgos,  Rodrigo  Diaz  de  Bivar,  known  as  the 
famous  Capitdn,  the  Cid  Campeador. 

Beside  the  glittering  vision  of  Santiago,  the  tutelary 
saint  of  Spain,  in  white  armour,  waving  celestial  banners, 
rises  the  image  of  the  Cid.  Encased  in  steel,  he  sits 
proudly  astride  on  his  good  horse  Babieca;  a  close 
casque  on  his  head,   under  which  a  pair  of  all-seeing 


246  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN. 

eyes  gaze  fiercely  out,  giving  expression  to  the  strongly 
marked  features  of  a  thin  long  face,  with  wildly  flying 
beard.  His  scimitar  hangs  at  his  side,  and  at  his  waist, 
encircled  by  a  leather  thong,  the  formidable  sword 
"Tizona"  he  alone  can  wield.  A  loose  white  garment 
or  kilt  floats  out  from  under  his  armour,  metal  buskins 
are  on  his  legs,  and  he  is  shod  in  steel. 

Thus  he  appears,  with  mighty  action,  an  aureole  of 
power  about  him  not  to  be  put  in  words,  "the  Cid"  or 
"Master" — the  terror  of  the  Moors,  the  scourge  of 
traitorous  kings,  marking  an  epoch  and  a  principle,  lift- 
ing him  out  of  the  confused  chivalry  of  the  Goths,  and 
standing  out  clear  from  shifting  details  into  the  light  of 
day. 

Cunning,  astute,  and  valorous,  implacable  in  con- 
quest, sanguinary  in  victory,  he  fought  while  he  lived. 
A  king  in  all  but  the  name,  and  proud  of  it,  boasting 
with  haughty  scorn  "That  none  of  his  blood  were  royal;" 
"That  he  had  never  possessed  an  acre,"  "But  that  the 
city  of  Valencia  had  pleased  him,  and  that  God  had 
permitted  him  to  take  it  as  his  own."  "Spain,"  he  said, 
"had  fallen  by  a  Roderich,  and  by  a  Roderich  it  should 
be  restored." 

Now  he  is  battling  with  the  Christian  king,  then  he 
is  making  alliance  with  the  Moors,  when  banished,  on 
his  own  account — to  his  own  advantage  ever — ''Por 
murzar,"  as  he  said  (to  eat). 

For  in  the  midst  of  all  his  glory  the  Cid  was  practical 
at  heart,  and  at  all  times,  be  it  owned,  a  sad  ruffian 
(though  ever  tender  to  his  own),  and  more  keen  and 
cruel  in  a  bargain  than  a  Jew. 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN.  247 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 
DON  DIEGO   LAYNEZ  AND  THE   CONDE  DE   GORMEZ. 

I  WONDER  if  Burgos  looked  then  as  it  does  now? — 
a  well  washed,  trim  little  city,  Dutch  in  its  neatness, 
tinted  upon  the  principle  of  Joseph's  coat  of  many 
colours,  pink,  blue,  peach,  and  yellow;  each  house  to- 
tally unlike  its  neighbour  in  height  and  shape;  the 
streets  sprouting  out  all  over  with  balconies,  miradores, 
and  low  arcades  under  flat  roofs,  an  unexpected  Gothic 
tower  or  barbican  breaking  through;  entered  by  the 
ancient  gate  of  Santa  Maria  beside  the  bridge  with 
castellated  bartizans  and  statues  of  notables  in  flat 
square  niches. 

Of  the  Cathedral  I  say  nothing,  because  the  present 
one  was  built  later  by  Ferdinando  El  Santo,  but  the 
line  of  towers  of  the  Gothic  Castle  stood  out  darkly 
prominent  on  the  hill  behind — Calle  Alia,  as  it  was 
called — as  old  as  300;  the  fortress  and  residence  of 
the  Condes  de  Castila,  and  the  place  where  the  bright- 
faced  Fernan  Gonzales  lived  his  merry  life,  shutting  up 
his  prisoners — Garcia,  King  of  Navarre,  Dona  Ava's 
treacherous  father,  for  a  year,  and  other  kings  and 
queens  too  numerous  to  mention, — with  celebrations  of 
royal  births  and  marriages  a  score;  the  old  church  of 
Sant'  Agueda,  an  " Iglesia  juradera"  (church  of  purga- 
tion), on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  the  family  posada,  or 
house  of  the  Cid,  to  be  seen  to  this  day,  the  ancestral 
shields  hung  outside  on  pedestals  forming  part  of  the 
front,  setting  forth  the  quarterings  of  Laynez  Calvo,  of 
ancient  Castilian  lineage,  the  father  of  the  Cid;  a  price- 


248  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

less  old  Siielo,  on  which  you  can  still  observe  the  measure 
of  the  Cid's  arm,  marked  on  marble;  and  the  mouth  of 
a  mediaeval  passage  through  which  he  could  ride  into 
the  plains  with  his  men  without  being  seen  by  the  citizens 
in  the  streets  below. 

At  this  moment  "the  child  of  Burgos,"  as  the  Cid 
is  called,  had  thrown  aside  his  warlike  accoutrements, 
having  been  present  at  a  council  at  the  Ayuntamiento 
presided  over  by  the  king,  and  is  now  on  his  way  to 
visit  his  lady  love.  Dona  Ximena,  the  daughter  of  the 
Conde  de  Gormez. 

As  he  passes  along  the  Calle,  gay  as  a  butterfly  in 
the  bright  sunshine,  under  the  barbicans  and  towers 
which  so  nobly  break  the  lines,  it  may  be  said  he  has 
too  much  of  a  swagger  in  his  gait,  but  he  has  reason 
to  be  proud,  for,  young  as  he  is,  Dona  Ximena  loves 
him,  and  the  good  old  King  Fernando  has  admitted  him 
to  his  council  because  he  is  already  strong  in  arms  and 
of  good  custom. 

Just  as  Don  Rodrigo  has  passed  out  of  the  Palace 
of  Ayuntamiento  (town  hall)  in  the  great  plaza,  its  front 
honey-combed  with  sculptured  cornices,  badges  and 
devices  on  a  warmly  tinted  stone,  two  Hidalgos  appear 
under  the  arched  doorway  talking  loud. 

"I  tell  you  the  king  does  wrong,"  the  younger  man 
is  saying  in  a  loud  voice — no  other  than  the  Conde 
Don  Gormez,  with  flashing  eyes,  moving  with  a  laughty 
swagger,  a  tall  olive-complexioned  Castilian  in  cap  and 
plume,  laced  boots  and  ample  cloak,  "very  wrong  in 
affronting  the  Emperor  of  Germany  and  the  Pope  in  a 
little  state  like  Castile." 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  249 

"The  king  does  right,"  answers  the  other,  very 
determinedly,  but  in  a  feebler  voice,  for  he  is  stricken 
in  years.  "What,  Conde  Don  Gormez,  would  you  have 
Castile  do?  Become  bounden  to  a  foreign  power, 
when  we  have  so  lately  gained  our  freedom  from 
Leon?" 

"I  think  the  matter  ill-considered,"  is  the  reply; 
"but  of  course  you  approve  it,  Don  Diego  Laynez. 
The  king  is  old  and  foolish,  and  loves  age  and  in- 
firmity about  him.  No  one  exceeds  you  now  in  ar- 
rogance, since  your  young  son  Rodrigo  sits  by  you  at 
the  council.  He  is  reported  of  good  courage  against 
the  Moors,  but  his  youth  makes  him  incompetent  to  ad- 
vise the  king." 

"Conde  Gormez,"  answers  the  other,  reddening  with 
anger,  "your  indiscreet  words  prove  that  it  is  not  age 
or  experience  which  give  judgment." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Don  Diego?"  asks  the  Conde 
fiercely.     "I  allow  no  observations  on  my  conduct." 

"I  do  not  condescend  to  fathom  it,"  is  the  answer, 
with  a  contemptous  glance.  "Jealousy  and  thirst  for 
power — " 

"Take  that,  old  fool,"  cries  the  Conde,  silencing  him 
with  a  sounding  blow  on  the  cheek,  which  made  him 
reel  backwards  against  the  wall. 

He  could  not  speak,  all  his  passion  had  vanished 
in  the  humiliation  of  being  struck.  White  and  tottering 
he  stood,  while  his  trembling  hand  sought  the  hilt  of 
his  sword. 

"Mother  of  God!"  he  says  at  last,  "you  had  better 
have  finished  me  altogether  than  put  this  insult  on  me. 
Is  it  that  you  deem  my  arm  so  weak  you  mock  me, 


250  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN. 

Sir  Count?"  And  as  he  spoke,  with  difficulty  he  drew 
his  sword. 

"Perhaps  it  is,"  replies  the  other  with  an  insolent 
laugh.  "Put  up  your  weapon,  old  man,  or  worse  may 
come  to  you." 

"No,  no,"  returns  Don  Diego,  the  colour  mounting 
to  his  cheek  as  his  fingers  felt  the  temper  of  the 
blade;  "as  knight  to  knight,  who  have  so  often  stood 
side  by  side  in  battle,  I  demand  a  fair  fight  and  no 
quarter." 

"As  you  will,"  he  answers,  and  an  evil  fire  comes 
into  his  eyes.  "It  is  a  favour  which,  at  your  age,  you 
have  no  right  to  demand.  If  you  desire  to  be  spitted, 
I  will  oblige  you  all  the  same." 

And  then  and  there  he  drew  his  rapier,  and  places 
himself  in  a  posture  of  defence. 

But  the  combat  was  too  unequal.  It  lasted  but  a 
few  minutes.  The  Conde  de  Gormez  was  the  first 
espadero  in  Castile,  in  the  flower  of  his  age,  graceful, 
skilful,  strong;  Don  Diego  is  old  and  weak.  His  blows 
fall  like  water  on  his  stalwart  adversary,  who  treats  him 
as  one  does  a  wayward  child. 

"Mark  you,"  he  says  at  last,  throwing  up  Don 
Diego's  sword,  "I  spare  your  life.  Go  home,  you 
dotard,  and  teach  your  son  to  hold  his  tongue  before 
his  betters  and  learn  to  be  a  wiser  man." 

With  that  he  sheathed  his  formidable  weapon,  turned 
his  back,  and  with  a  quick  step  disappeared. 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  2$l 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 
DON  RODRIGO   (tHE   CID)   KILLS  THE  CONDE  DE  GORMEZ. 

It  was  the  hottest  hour  of  the  day,  when  the  citizens 
made  their  siesta;  the  sun  poured  down  in  splendour 
on  the  white  walls,  absorbing  the  shade;  the  river  was 
dried  up. 

No  one  had  witnessed  the  encounter.  But  what  did 
that  matter?  Conde  Gormez  would  be  sure  to  publish 
it  abroad.  Oh,  shame  and  grief!  Don  Diego  was  for 
ever  dishonoured! 

Just  as,  with  wavering  steps,  he  was  addressing 
himself  to  seek  his  horse  where  he  had  left  him,  he 
heard  the  clank  of  spurs  upon  the  pavement,  and  his 
son  Rodrigo  appeared. 

"Well  met!"  cried  he,  clutching  his  arm  and  gazing 
up  wistfully  into  his  beaming  face;  "the  saints  have 
sent  you," 

"May  their  blessing  be  ever  on  you,  my  honoured 
fiither,"  is  the  reply,  as  he  stops  to  kiss  his  hand.  "I 
was  hastening  home  to  tell  you  that  the  marriage  is 
fixed,  and  that  the  king,  Don  Fernando,  gives  away  the 
bride.  But,  father,  are  you  ill?"  noting  his  blanched 
aspect  as  his  father  leant  heavily  upon  him. 

"Rodrigo,"  he  whispers,  and  with  an  unutterable 
expression  of  despair  he  looks  into  his  eyes,  "are  you 
brave?" 

"Sir!"  answers  Rodrigo,  drawing  back  his  arm,  "any 
other  but  you  should  feel  it  on  the  instant." 

"Oh,  blessed  anger!"  replies  Don  Diego,  watching 
the  deep  flush  mounting  on  his  face,  "you   are  indeed 


252  OLD    COURT  LIFE   IN   SPAIN. 

my  son.  My  blood  flows  in  your  veins.  I  was  like 
that  once.  Prompt,  ready,  dexterous.  Rodrigo,  will 
you  avenge  me?" 

"For  what?"  asks  Rodrigo,  more  and  more  per- 
plexed. 

"For  that,"  returns  Don  Diego — and  as  he  spoke 
his  voice  gathered  strength  and  he  drew  himself  back, 
and  stands  upright  before  him — "which  touches  your 
honour  as  nearly  as  my  own.  A  blow,  a  cruel  blow! 
Had  I  been  of  your  age  his  blood  would  have  wiped  it 
out.  But  it  is  not  with  swords  such  an  outrage  is 
avenged.  Go — die — or  slay  him.  But  I  warn  you,  he 
is  a  hero.  I  have  seen  him  in  the  front  of  a  hundred 
battles,  making  a  rampart  of  his  body  against  the  foe. 
He  is—" 

"Tell  me,  father,  tell  me!"  exclaims  Don  Rodrigo, 
breathlessly  following  his  father's  words. 

"The  father  of  Xiraena." 

"The—" 

No  sound  came  to  his  white  lips.  As  if  struck  by 
a  mortal  blow,  Rodrigo  staggered  back  against  the 
sculptured  pilasters  of  the  Ayuntamiento. 

"Speak  not,  my  son,"  says  Don  Diego,  laying  his 
hand  upon  him.  "I  know  how  much  you  love  her. 
But  he  who  accepts  infamy  is  unworthy  to  live.  I  have 
told  you  vengeance  is  in  your  hand,  for  me,  for  you. 
Be  worthy  of  your  father,  who  was  once  a  valiant  knight. 
Go,  I  say, — rush — fly, — as  though  the  earth  burned 
under  your  footsteps!  Nor  let  me  behold  you  until  you 
have  washed  out  the  stain!" 


i 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  2$S 

The  chronicles  say  that,  insolent  as  he  was,  the 
Conde  de  Gormez  had  already  repented  of  his  furious 
act.  Certain  of  the  wrath  of  the  king,  who  greatly 
esteemed  Don  Diego  Laynez,  and  shrinking  from  the 
reproaches  of  his  daughter,  he  was  preparing  to  leave 
the  city  when  he  came  upon  the  Cid. 

They  met  beside  the  banks  of  the  Arlaangen,  which 
still  presents  the  sandy  emptiness  of  an  ill-fed  river, 
under  a  screen  of  plane-trees  whispering  to  the  summer 
wind,  the  space  without  thronged  with  hidalgos  and 
cheerful  citizens  in  ample  cloaks  and  cappas  muffled 
up  to  the  eyes,  spite  of  the  heat,  in  true  Castilian 
fashion. 

As  Don  Rodrigo,  with  lofty  stride,  approached,  the 
Conde  stood  still,  guessing  his  errand. 

Of  all  the  knights  of  Castile  Don  Gormez  was  a 
palm  higher  than  the  rest.  A  dark  defiant  head  was 
firmly  set  on  massive  shoulders,  youthful  in  aspect  for 
his  period  of  middle  age,  an  approved  and  complete 
warrior  at  all  points,  and  full  to  the  brim,  as  one  may 
say,  of  the  chivalric  traditions  of  the  time. 

Rodrigo  beside  him  looked  a  slender  youth;  the 
down  was  on  his  cheek,  the  lustre  of  boyhood  in  his 
eyes,  now  dilated  with  fury  as  he  drew  near. 

"Sir  Conde,"  he  says  shortly,  as  he  doffs  his  cap, 
to  which  the  other  responded  with  a  haughty  smile,  "I 
ask  two  words  of  you." 

"Speak!"  is  the  Conde's  answer,  twirling  his 
moustache. 

"Tell  me,  do  you  know  Don  Diego,  my  father?" 

"Yes,"  in  a  loud  tone.     "Why  ask?  " 

"Speak  lower.     Listen.     Do  you  know  that  in  his 


254  ^LD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

time  he  was  the  honour  of  the  land,  brave  as  yourself? 
You  know  it?" 

Nearer  and  nearer  Rodrigo  came  as  he  spoke,  until 
their  faces  almost  touch. 

"I  care  not,"  is  the  answer,  with  a  sneer. 

"Stand  back  in  the  shade  of  that  thicket  and  I 
will  teach  you,"  roars  the  Cid,  his  rage  bursting  all 
bounds. 

"Presumptuous  boy!"  exclaims  the  Conde  with  in- 
effable scorn;  yet,  spite  of  his  affected  contempt,  the 
words  have  stung  him,  and  he  turns  crimson. 

"I  am  young,  it  is  true,"  answers  Rodrigo,  "but 
once  so  were  you.  Valour  goes  not  by  the  number  of 
our  years." 

"You — you  dare  to  measure  yourself  with  me!" 
cries  he,  losing  all  control  in  the  climax  of  his  rage. 

"I  do.  I  well  know  your  prowess.  You  have 
always  prevailed,  but  to  him  who  fights  for  his  father 
nothing  is  impossible.  Come  on,  sir  Conde,"  drawing 
his  sword. 

"Seek  not  so  vainly  to  end  your  days,"  answers 
Gormez,  laying  his  hand  on  the  hilt  of  his  weapon. 
"Your  death  will  be  no  credit  to  my  sword." 

"Mock  me  not  by  this  insulting  pity,"  answers 
Rodrigo,  "or  by  God  I  shall  think  it  is  you  who  are 
tired  of  living,  not  I."  And  as  he  spoke  he  struck  the 
Conde  de  Gormez  with  the  flat  of  his  sword. 

The  attack  on  both  sides  was  furious.  Rodrigo 
grows  cold  with  the  thirst  of  vengeance;  the  Conde 
burns  to  cut  off  a  life  which  rivals  with  his  own. 

But  the  sure  aim  of  Rodrigo  and  his  strength  pre- 
vail.    With   one  stroke   of  his  good   sword  Tizona,   he 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  255 

fells  Gormez  to  the  earth  and  plunges  his  weapon 
straight  into  his  heart.  Red  with  his  Ufe-blood  he 
draws  it  out  to  bear  it  as  a  trophy  to  his  father. 

"Die!  Lord  of  Gormez,"  are  his  words,  wiping  his 
brow,  as  he  watches  the  blood  slowly  ooze  from  the 
wound  to  mix  itself,  a  sinister  stream,  with  the  sand. 
"Alas!  had  your  courtesy  equalled  your  knighthood 
and  your  birth,  you  might  have  lived  to  see  your  child's 
children  mine.  Farewell,  oh  my  enemy;'*  and  he 
stoops  reverently  to  cover  the  face  of  the  dead  with  his 
mantle,  reading  the  while  with  horror  in  the  still  set 
features  the  softer  lineaments  of  his  Ximena.  "Alas!" 
— and  his  countenance  darkens  and  he  heaves  a  great 
sigh — "I  am  but  Ruy  Diaz,  your  lover,  the  most 
wretched  of  men!  Oh!  that  I  could  lie  there  dead, 
instead  of  him!  Ximena,  oh,  my  love,  will  you  ever 
forgive  me?" 

And  sorrowing  thus  he  turned  away  by  intricate 
windings  to  mount  the  hill  to  the  Suelos  where  Don 
Diego  awaits  him,  seated  in  the  hall,  the  food  lying  on 
the  table  before  him  untouched. 

"Behold!"  cries  he,  unsheathing  the  bloody  sword. 
"The  tongue  which  insulted  you,  Don  Diego,  is  no 
longer  a  tongue;  the  hand  which  struck  you  is  no 
longer  a  hand.  You  are  avenged,  oh,  my  father, 
and  I—" 

He  could  not  continue. 

With  a  loud  laugh  Don  Diego  rose  up,  taking  in 
his  hand  the  blood-stained  sword  and  placing  it  beside 
him  on  the  board  below  the  salt;  then  turns  to  embrace 
Rodrigo. 

He  spoke  never  a  word,  but  stood  like  one  stupe- 


256  OLD    COURT  LIFE   IN  SPAIN. 

fied,  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast,  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  ground. 

''Son  of  my  heart,"  says  Don  Diego,  "I  pray  you 
turn  and  eat.  Mourn  not  what  you  have  done.  My 
youth  comes  back  to  me  in  you.  Greater  than  me 
shall  you  be,  and  win  back  broad  lands  from  the 
Moors,  and  be  rich  like  a  king,  when  I  am  low  in  the 
dust.  Take  the  head  of  the  board,  Rodrigo.  Higher 
than  myself  is  the  place  of  the  son  who  has  brought 
the  sword  of  Conde  Gormez  to  his  Suelos.  The  place 
of  honour  is  yours,  and  I  will  pledge  you  with  wine." 
And  as  he  spoke  the  old  man  rises,  and  taking  Rodrigo 
by  the  hand  places  him  above  him,  and  with  his  own 
hand  serves  him  with  meat  and  drink. 

Poetry  and  the  drama  in  latter  days  have  much 
dealt  with  the  story  of  the  Cid,  and  altogether  altered 
it  from  its  ancient  simplicity. 

Not  so  the  chronicles,  which  depict  the  facts  in  the 
language  of  the  time  very  straightforwardly,  specially 
the  chronicle  of  King  Alfonso  of  Castile,  surnamed  El 
Sabio,  written  soon  after  the  Cid's  death.  If  not  penned 
by  the  hand  of  the  king  himself,  at  least  it  is  largely 
dictated  by  him,  and  not  at  all  partial,  for  as  King  of 
Castile  he  deeply  resented  the  rebellion  of  the  Cid 
against  his  father  Alonzo. 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  257 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

MARRIAGE  OF  THE  CID  AND  DONA  XIMENA. 

Three  years  had  passed  when  King  Fernando 
solemnly  knighted  Rodrigo. 

It  was  in  this  manner.  The  king  girded  on  him 
his  sword  Tizona,  to  become  famous  to  all  time,  and 
gave  him  a  kiss,  but  no  blow;  the  queen  gave  him  a 
horse,  perhaps  Babieca;  and  the  Infanta  Dona  Urraca 
stooped  to  the  earth  and  fastened  on  his  spurs — an  act 
of  honour  so  exceptional  even  in  those  days  of  chivalry 
she  would  not  have  performed  it  unless  Rodrigo  was 
dearer  to  her  than  appeared.  But  if  there  was  love  on 
her  side  or  on  his,  or  on  both,  is  not  known,  except 
that  some  words  in  the  chronicles  would  lead  one  to 
suppose  that  the  Cid  honoured  her  beyond  all  women, 
and  that  the  lady  herself  would  never  marry  a  meaner 
man. 

From  that  day  he  was  called  the  Cid  Campeador. 
It  was  the  Moors  who  gave  him  the  title  of  "Said" 
(Cid)  or  "master,"  so  often  had  he  beaten  them,  and 
Campeador,  or  champion  in  single  combat,  such  as  was 
Roland  the  Brave,  slain  by  Bernardo  del  Carpio. 

Specially  he  deserved  these  honours  when  he  over- 
came five  Moorish  kings,  who  had  presumptuously 
crossed  the  mountain  of  Oca,  and  were  plundering  the 
plains  near  Burgos.  He  took  them  captive,  divided 
the  booty  with  his  knights,  and  brought  them  to  his 
mother  in  the  Suelos  on  the  hill  with  great  honour. 
"For  it  is  not  meet,"  he  said,  "to  keep  kings  prisoners, 
but  to  let  them  go  freely  home." 

Old  Court  Life  in  Spain.   I.  1 7 


258  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

Like  a  practical  man,  however,  as  he  was,  he  de- 
manded a  large  ransom. 

Fernando,  who  loved  Rodrigo,  endeavoured  to  end 
the  feud  between  the  families  of  Gormez  and  Laynez. 
Nor  was  it  difficult.  Don  Diego,  full  of  years,  slept  the 
sleep  of  death.  The  lord  of  Gormez  was  slain,  and 
Ximena  was  left,  the  youngest  of  three  daughters. 

The  age  was  one  of  war,  and  knightly  honour 
counted  as  the  highest  virtue  in  a  man. 

So  when  the  king  called  her  to  him  in  the  castle, 
Ximena  answered,  falling  on  her  knees  before  him,  ac- 
cording to  the  love  she  bore  Rodrigo. 

"Don  King  Fernando,"  she  said,  "had  you  not  sent 
for  me,  I  would  have  craved  as  a  boon  that  you  would 
give  me  Rodrigo  to  be  my  husband.  With  him  I  shall 
hold  myself  well  married,  and  greatly  honoured.  Cer- 
tain I  am  that  he  will  one  day  be  greater  than  any  man 
in  the  kingdom  of  Castile,  and  as  his  wife  I  truly  pardon 
him  for  what  he  did." 

So  King  Fernando  ordered  letters  to  be  sent  to  the 
Cid  at  Palencia,  commanding  him  at  once  to  return  to 
Burgos  upon  an  affair  greatly  for  God's  service  and  his 
own. 

He  came  mounted  on  his  war-horse,  attired  in  his 
fairest  suit  of  chain  armour,  wearing  that  high  steel  cap 
in  which  we  see  him  now;  his  rippling  braids  of  hair 
hanging  down  on  his  shoulders  in  the  ancient  fashion 
of  the  Goths,  and  in  his  company  were  many  knights, 
both  his  own  and  of  his  kindred  and  friends — in  all 
two  hundred  peers — in  festive  guise,  streamers  in 
various   colours   flying   from   their   shields,    and  scarves 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  2^g 

upon  their  arms,  each  knight  attended   by  a  mounted 
squire  bearing  his  lance  and  cognizance. 

In  the  courtyard  of  the  castle  beside  the  keep  the 
king  received  them  sitting  on  his  throne;  the  queen  and 
her  ladies  and  Dona  Urraca,  resting  on  raised  estrades 
tented  with  silk,  attired  in  brocade  and  tissue,  lined  with 
rare  fur. 

As  he  enters  the  enclosure  which  is  marked  with 
gilded  poles,  the  Cid  dismounts,  as  do  the  other  knights, 
to  do  obeisance  to  the  king  and  queen,  but  he  alone 
advances  to  kiss  the  royal  hand — a  distinction  which 
greatly  offends  his  fellows,  who  were  further  angered  by 
being  dismissed  while  Rodrigo  was  invited  to  remain 
beside  the  king. 

"I  have  called  you,  my  good  Rodrigo,"  said  King 
Fernando,  with  a  voice  lowered  to  reach  his  ear  alone, 
"to  question  you  respecting  Dona  Ximena  de  Gormez, 
whose  sire  you  slew.  She  is  too  fair  a  flower  to  bloom 
alone." 

At  these  words  Don  Rodrigo  reddened  like  a  boy 
and  hung  his  head. 

So  greatly  was  he  moved  who  had  never  known  fear 
that  the  power  of  speech  left  him  suddenly,  and  for  a 
time  he  stood  like  one  distraught.  Whether  the  eyes  of 
Dona  Urraca  being  upon  him  he  was  confused,  or  that 
the  transport  of  love  he  felt  for  Ximena  overcame  him, 
who  knows? 

"Speak,  noble  Cid,  I  pray  you,"  said  the  king  at 
last,  weary  of  waiting. 

"It  is  for  you,  my  gracious  lord  and  king,  to  ques- 
tion me,"  was  at  last  his  answer.  "Alas!  her  blood  is 
on  my  hand." 

17* 


260  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

"In  fair  fight,"  is  the  rejoinder,  "as  becomes  a 
belted  knight.  But  the  lady  already  forgives  you,  and 
would  rejoice  to  be  your  bride.  I  have  it  from  herself 
Nor  shall  my  favour  be  wanting  to  you  both  in  lands 
and  gifts." 

Then  Rodrigo  raised  his  head  proudly,  and  his  face 
lit  with  joy.  Whatever  tokens  had  passed  between  him 
and  Dona  Urraca,  it  was  clear  he  had  not  forgotten 
his  love  to  Ximena,  nor  questioned  the  claim  she  had 
upon  him. 

"In  this,  as  in  all  else,  I  will  obey  my  lord  the 
king,"  he  said  again,  making  obeisance  on  bended  knee. 
"Dear  shall  Ximena  be  to  me  as  my  own  Hfe,  and  my 
honoured  mother  shall  tend  and  keep  her  in  our  house 
while  I  am  away  on  my  lord's  business  against  the 
Moors." 

King  Don  Fernando,  greatly  contented,  rose  from 
his  throne,  and  bidding  Don  Rodrigo  follow  him,  he 
passed  into  the  great  court  of  the  castle,  followed  by 
the  queen  and  Dona  Urraca,  already  of  great  courage, 
and  casting  glances  at  the  Cid  from  under  the  silken 
coil  which  bound  her  head.  Not  so  hidden  but  that 
some  of  the  court  observed  her,  and  remembered  it 
later  at  Zamora,  when  the  Cid  refused  to  bear  arms 
against  her. 

Within  the  great  hall  of  the  castle  the  marriage 
feast  was  held.  The  whole  city  was  hung  with  gar- 
lands and  tapestry,  banners,  flags,  and  devices,  as 
though  each  street  was  a  separate  tent;  the  people 
swarming  on  balconies  and  roofs,  and  the  sandy  plain 
outside  dark  with  the  companies  of  knights  who  come 
riding   in.     All   the   great   names   are    there — Ordonez, 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  26  I 

Gonzalez,  Peranzurez,  Vellidas,  on  fleet  Arab  steeds; 
some  rich  turbans  also  of  the  Moors  to  be  distinguished 
in  the  crowd,  for  the  parties  are  so  strangely  mixed 
that  the  Cid  has  many  close  friends  among  his  enemies. 
Crowds  of  the  common  folk  come,  and  retainers  from 
the  Castle  of  Bivar,  each  one  with  some  story  to  tell 
about  the  Cid.  From  Las  Huelgas,  the  royal  burying 
ground  and  fortress,  surrounded  by  walls,  a  mile  out  of 
the  city — arrives  the  abbess,  who  takes  rank  as  a 
Princess  Palatine,  attended  by  her  female  chapter,  in 
the  full  dress  of  the  order,  all  mounted  on  mules; 
monks  from  the  Church  of  San  Pedro  de  Cardenes,  the 
burying  place  of  the  Laynez,  and  companies  of  the 
Ricoshombres  from  the  adjacent  cities,  trotting  over  the 
hills — all  disappearing  into  the  huge  gateway  of  Santa 
Maria  to  reach  the  Calle  Alia,  where  the  procession  is 
to  be  formed. 

The  first  to  appear  is  the  Bishop  of  Palencia  on  a 
mule.  He  is  followed  by  the  Cid,  decked  in  his  bridal 
state,  under  a  trellis-work  of  green  branches,  held  up 
by  the  lances  and  scimitars  he  had  taken  from  the 
Moors,  his  own  troop  of  true  men  with  him,  friends  and 
kinsmen — all  dressed  in  one  colour,  and  shining  in  new 
armour. 

As  he  passes  olive  branches  and  rushes  are  laid 
upon  the  streets,  ladies  fling  posies  and  wreaths,  and 
bulls  are  led  before  with  gilded  horns,  covered  with 
rich  housings.  The  court  fool  follows  in  cap  and  bells, 
his  parti-coloured  legs  astride  an  ass.  A  harmless  devil 
comes  after,  horned  and  hoofed,  hired  to  frighten  the 
women,  and  crowds  of  captive  maidens  dance  to  cym- 
bals and   flutes.     The  Queen  Dona  Sancha  walks  next, 


262  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

wearing  her  crown  and  a  "fur  pall,"  attended  by  her 
ladies  and  duenas,  but  the  name  of  Dona  Urraca  no- 
where occurs. 

Then,  hand  in  hand  with  the  smiling  king,  comes 
Ximena;  "the  king  always  talking,"  as  the  ballad  says, 
but  Ximena  holding  down  her  head.  "It  is  better  to  be 
silent  than  meaningless,"  she  said. 

Upon  her  fall  showers  of  yellow  wheat.  Every 
shooter,  young  and  old,  makes  her  his  mark.  From  her 
white  shoulders  and  breast  the  king  picks  it  off.  "A 
fine  thing  to  be  a  king,"  laughs  the  fool,  "but  I  would 
rather  be  a  grain." 

In  the  Gothic  Church  of  Sant'  Agueda,  close  on  the 
hill,  the  nuptial  knot  is  tied.  After  which  the  king  does 
them  great  honour  at  the  feast,  conferring  on  them  many 
noble  gifts  and  adding  to  the  lands  of  the  Cid  more 
than  as  much  again. 

To  his  own  Suelos  on  the  hill  (for  indeed  all  these 
great  doings  were  confined  to  a  very  narrow  space  (the 
Cid  conducts  his  bride,  to  place  her  under  his  mother's 
keeping,  and  as  his  foot  touches  his  own  threshold, 
under  the  escutcheon  of  his  race,  he  pauses  and  kisses 
her  on  the  cheek.  "By  the  love  I  bear  you,  dear 
Ximena,  I  swear  that  I  will  never  set  eyes  on  you  again 
until  I  have  won  five  pitched  battles  against  the  Moors." 
Again  he  kisses  her,  drying  her  tears;  then  went  out 
to  the  frontier  of  Aragon,  taking  with  him  his  trusty 
knights. 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  263 


CHAPTER    XXX. 
DEATH  OF  KING  FERNANDO. DONA  URRACA  AT  ZAMORA. 

After  this  there  was  a  great  change.  The  good 
king  Fernando  fell  ill  with  the  malady  of  which  he  died. 
For  three  days  he  lay  on  his  bed  lamenting  in  pain;  on 
the  fourth,  at  the  hour  of  sexte,  he  called  to  him  his 
son  Don  Sancho,  and  recommended  him  to  the  Cid,  to 
give  him  good  counsel,  and  not  to  go  against  his  will, 
which  was  to  divide  the  kingdom  into  three  parts,  a 
most  unaccountable  act,  seeing  that  all  his  life  he  had 
been  fighting  to  maintain  it  united. 

With  Don  Sancho  came  the  other  infantes,  Alfonso 
and  Garcia,  and  stood  round  his  bed — all  three  comely 
youths,  and  very  expert  in  knightly  exercises,  but  as 
yet  too  young  to  carry  a  beard.  Alfonso  and  Garcia 
were  well  contented  with  their  kingdom,  but  Don  Sancho, 
the  eldest,  was  wrath  against  his  father,  and  already 
turned  in  his  mind  how  he  could  overcome  his  brothers 
and  possess  Castile  and  Leon  alone. 

Fernando,  suffering  great  anguish,  had  turned  his 
face  to  the  wall  to  die,  when  his  daughter  Dona  Urraca 
came  rushing  in. 

"Oh,  father!"  cries  she,  kissing  his  hand,  "if  God 
had  not  laid  his  hand  upon  you,  and  brought  you  to 
this  death  hour,  I  should  reproach  you  bitterly.  It  is 
well  known  you  have  meted  out  your  kingdom  between 
my  three  brothers.  To  me  alone  you  give  nothing. 
Why  should  your  daughter  be  left  to  be  blown  Hke  a 
waif  before  the  wind?  Whither  can  I  fly?  Shall  I 
address   myself  to   the  Moors   for   protection?     A   fine 


264  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

sight,  indeed,  will  it  be  to  see  a  king's  daughter  brought 
to  such  a  pass!" 

Now  Dona  Urraca  was  a  princess  of  great  presence 
and  power  in  her  speech.  Her  words  were  cutting,  and 
they  roused  even  the  dying  king.  Slowly  he  turns  on 
his  side  to  look  at  her,  and  though  his  lips  were  already 
livid  his  eyes  show  he  understands;  thrice  he  essayed  to 
speak;  at  last,  between  pangs  of  mortal  pain,  the  words 
came  forth: — 

"Cease,  Urraca,  cease;  a  noble  mother  bore  you, 
but  a  churlish  slave  gave  you  milk.  Take  Zamora  for 
your  portion;  may  my  curse  fall  on  any  of  your  brothers 
who  take  it  from  you." 

"Swear  to  me,  my  sons." 

"Amen,"  answers  Don  Alfonso  heartily,  for  he  loved 
his  sister.  Don  Garcia,  the  youngest,  repeated  the  same; 
only  Don  Sancho  moved  his  lips,  but  no  word  came. 

Zamora  la  ben  cercada,  a  Moorish  fortress  as  the 
name  indicates,  lately  conquered  by  Fernando,  stands 
on  the  river  Duero,  which  flows  away  to  the  west 
through  a  beautifully  wooded  valley,  in  the  kingdom  of 
Leon,  between  Valladolid  and  Medina.  It  was  then 
surrounded  by  seven  lines  of  walls,  with  deep  moats 
between.  From  the  bridge  by  the  city  walls  is  still  to 
be  seen  the  ruins  of  the  palace  of  Dona  Urraca,  with 
her  likeness,  a  mutilated  head  in  a  niche  over  the  gate- 
way, and  the  inscription,  " Afuera  Afiiera  Rodrigo  el 
soberhio   Castellano." 

Within  her  council  chamber  sits  the  Infanta,  the 
white  coif  of  a  queen  under  a  Gothic  crown  on  her 
auburn  head  and  long  robes  of  black  about  her  stately 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  265 

form.  She  is  accustomed  to  the  calm  majesty  of  state, 
but  her  blue  eyes  shine  with  wonderful  lustre,  and, 
spite  of  herself,  her  fingers  move  nervously  on  the  rich 
carving  of  her  chair.  The  Cid  Campeador  is  coming, 
sent  by  her  brother  Don  Sancho,  who  is  encamped  out- 
side, and  has  ridden  three  times  round  the  walls  to 
study  the  defences,  attended  by  his  knights. 

For  no  sooner  was  the  breath  out  of  his  father's 
body  than  he  attacked  his  brothers,  and  now  he  is  come 
to  take  Zamora. 

With  Dona  Arraca  in  the  council  chamber  are  Don 
Pero  Anonras,  Don  Vellido  and  Dolfos,  a  knight  of  no 
good  fame,  but  devoted  to  her  service. 

The  Cid  enters  in  full  armour,  a  green  feather  in 
his  casque.  His  face  had  lost  the  sweetness  of  youth, 
and  is  hard  and  thin,  the  nose  arched  and  prominent 
as  he  advanced  in  life,  and  his  eyes  of  such  searching 
fierceness  that  he  terrified  his  enemies  before  he  drew 
his  sword. 

Not  now;  for  as  the  Infanta  hastens  to  the  door  to 
greet  him,  and  he  sinks  on  one  knee  to  kiss  her  dimpled 
hand,  his  face  melts  into  the  most  winning  softness,  and 
he  smiles  on  her  as  she  leads  him  to  the  estrade,  en- 
closed by  golden  bannisters,  within  which  her  chair  of 
state  is  placed. 

"Now,  Cid,"  says  Dona  Urraca,  when  they  had 
seated  themselves,  "what  is  my  brother  about  to  do? 
All  Spain  is  in  arms.  Is  it  against  the  Moors  or  the 
Christians?" 

"Lady,"  he  answers — and  the  tone  of  his  voice  is 
wonderfully  subdued — "the  king  your  brother  sends  to 
greet  you  by  me.     He  beseeches  you  to  give  up  to  him 


266  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

the  fortress  of  Zamora;  he  will  in  return  swear  never  to 
do  you  harm." 

"And  you,  Don  Ruy  Diaz  de  Bivar,  bring  me  such 
a  message!"  she  exclaims,  half  rising  from  her  chair,  a 
great  reproach  coming  into  her  blue  eyes;  "you,  who 
have  been  brought  up  with  me  in  this  very  city  of 
Zamora,  which  my  father  conquered!" 

"I  did  not  want  to  be  the  messenger,"  replies  the 
Cid,  gazing  into  her  comely  face  with  a  great  freedom 
of  admiration,  "except  that  I  might  again  see  my  Infanta, 
and  give  her  some  comfort.  I  strove  with  the  king  not 
to  send  me.  How  could  I  refuse  him  whom  I  have 
sworn  to  stand  by?     Better  I  than  another  man." 

"That  is  true,"  she  replies,  "but  I  think  before  you 
swore  to  the  king,  my  father,  you  had  bound  yourself 
to  me." 

Now  this  speech  put  the  Cid  in  a  great  strait.  He 
and  Dona  Urraca  had  had  love  passages  together  as 
long  as  he  could  remember,  yet  he  had  wooed  another 
and  married  her,  and  the  Infanta  is  still  alone.  The 
Cid  was  great  in  battle,  but  he  was  simple  in  the  language 
of  love.  All  he  could  do  was  to  hang  his  head  and 
blush,  which  made  Dona  Urraca  very  angry. 

"Wretch  that  I  am!"  cries  she,  clasping  her  hands, 
"what  evil  messages  have  I  had  since  my  father's  death? 
This  is  the  worst  of  all.  As  for  my  brothers,  Alfonso 
is  among  the  Moors;  Garcia  imprisoned  like  a  slave 
with  an  iron  chain;  I  must  give  up  Zamora;  and  Ruy 
Diaz,  my  playmate,  is  come  to  tell  me  so!  Now  may 
the  earth  open  and  swallow  me  up  that  I  may  not 
suffer  so  many  wrongs.     Remember,  I  am  a  woman!" 

To  all  this  the  Cid  answers  nothing.     He  is  bound 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  267 

by  his  oath  to  the  king,  but  his  darkened  countenance 
shows  how  much  he  is  moved  as  he  sits  straight  upright 
on  the  estrade,  contemplating  the  face  of  Dona  Urraca. 

Then  her  foster-father,  Don  Arias  Gonzalo,  stands 
out  from  the  other  counsellors,  and  says,  "Lady  Dona 
Urraca,  prove  the  men  of  Zamora,  whether  they  will 
cleave  to  you  or  to  Don  Sancho."  To  which  she  agreed, 
and  calling  in  her  ladies  to  bring  her  mantilla  and 
manto,  she  went  out  through  the  broad  corridor  of  the 
palace  in  which  the  banners  and  the  armour  were  hung, 
by  the  gateway  with  her  effigy  over  it,  down  to  the 
church  of  San  Salvador;  the  Cid,  as  her  brother's  mes- 
senger, walking  on  her  right  hand. 

The  townsmen  arrive,  called  by  the  voice  of  Don 
Mifio,  and  thus  they  spoke: — 

"We  beseech  you,  Dona  Lady  Infanta,  not  to  give 
up  Zamora.  We  will  spend  all  our  money,  and  devour 
our  mules  and  horses;  nay,  even  feast  on  our  own 
children,  in  your  defence.  If  you  cleave  to  us,  we  will 
cleave  to  you." 

Dona  Urraca  is  well  pleased.  She  had  a  bitter 
tongue  but  a  warm  heart,  and  now  it  was  touched.  The 
beauty  returned  to  her  countenance  as  she  turns  it  on 
the  Cid,  the  stately  beauty  of  royalty  to  which  no  lower 
born  can  attain. 

"See,  Cid  Campeador,"  she  says,  proudly  launching 
on  him  a  look  out  of  her  glowing  eyes,  "many  kings 
would  have  envied  you,  who  were  bred  up  with  me, 
yet  you  hold  me  of  little  count.  Go  to  my  brother, 
and  entreat  him  to  leave  me  alone.  I  would  rather  die 
with  these  men  in  Zamora  than  live  elsewhere.  Tell 
him   what  you   have   seen    and   heard,   and   may   God 


268  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

speed  you  on  the  way."      With  which  answer  the  Cid 
departs. 

CHAPTER    XXXI. 
DON  ALFONSO   BANISHES   THE   CID. 

Don  Sancho  was  young.  He  was  arrogant.  He 
had  already  crowned  himself  king  of  the  three  kingdoms, 
and  believed  he  was  invincible.  As  the  Cid  enteis  his 
tent  and  delivers  Dona  Urraca's  message,  he  turns  upon 
him  savagely. 

"This  is  your  counsel,"  he  cries.  "Oh,  Cid,  such 
courage  does  not  belong  to  a  woman!  My  sister  defies 
me  because  you  were  bred  up  with  her,  and  because — " 

What  more  Don  Sancho  might  have  said,  remained 
unspoken,   for  the  Cid   broke   in  with  a  terrible  oath, — 

"It  is  false.  I  have  served  you  faithfully,  according 
to  my  word.  But  I  declare  I  will  not  take  arms  against 
the  Infanta,  nor  against  the  city  of  Zamora,  because  of 
the  days  that  are  past." 

"Traitor!"  shouts  Don  Sancho,  incensed  beyond  all 
bounds.  "If  it  were  not  for  my  father,  I  would  order 
you  this  instand  to  be  hanged!" 

"It  is  not  your  father's  desires,  but  your  own  use 
for  me  which  restrains  you,  Don  Sancho.  Have  you 
not  two  brothers  alive?  And  who  shall  gainsay  me  if 
I  place  one  of  them  on  the  throne?" 

Without  another  word  the  Cid  turned  and  left  the 
tent,  and  calling  to  him  his  kinsmen  and  friends,  rides 
out  of  the  camp  towards  Toledo. 

King  Don  Sancho,  greatly  alarmed,  sent  after  him 
and  brought  him  back. 

So   hard-pressed   was   Zamora,  that  although   Dofia 


i 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  269 

Urraca  was  of  a  stout  heart,  she  determined,  by  the 
advice  of  her  foster-father  and  her  council,  as  she  would 
not  willingly  see  all  her  people  die,  to  retreat  with  them 
to  Toledo,  to  join  her  brother,  Don  Alfonso,  who  was 
with  the  Moors. 

Now  this  was  exactly  what  the  traitor  Dolfos  was 
waiting  for. 

"Lady  Dona  Infanta,"  he  says,  kissing  her  hand  as 
she  sat  on  an  ancient  seat  in  her  retiring  room  debating 
what  she  was  to  do,  signs  of  hunger  and  grief  on  her 
royal  face,  "I  have  served  you  long,  and  never  had  any 
reward,  though  I  have  seen  you  gracious  to  other  men. 
But  if  you  will  look  with  favour  on  me,  I  will  make 
Don  Sancho  raise  the  siege." 

Now  this  speech,  which  the  chroniclers  give  us  word 
for  word,  would  seem  to  infer  either  that  he  was  a 
villain,  who  took  advantage  of  her  strait,  or  that  Dona 
Urraca  was  not  that  faultless  dame  we  would  fain  be- 
lieve her  to  be. 

Her  answer,  too,  was  calm,  as  of  one  to  whom  the 
aspirations  of  love  were  no  strange  matter. 

"Don  Dolfos,  I  will  answer  you  as  the  wise  men 
did  the  fool.  Bargains  are  made  with  the  slothful,  and 
with  those  in  need.  I  am  in  sore  need.  I  do  not  bid 
you  to  commit  an  evil  deed,  but  I  say  there  is  nothing 
I  would  not  grant  to  the  man  who  saves  Zamora  from 
the  king." 

Again  Dolfos  kisses  her  hand. 

Now  it  is  well  known  that  the  king  was  treacherously 
slain  by  Dolfos,  with  his  own  gilded  hunting-spear,  out- 
side the  walls,  believing  that  he  had  come  to  him 
secretly  pretending  to  give  Zamora  up.     The  Cid,  who 


270  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

was  riding  near,  met  him  flying  back  towards  the 
postern,  and  charged  him  with  the  deed,  but  he  put 
spurs  to  his  horse  and  got  back  within  the  walls.  The 
Cid,  eager  to  pursue  him,  took  his  lance  from  his 
esquire,  but  did  not  wait  to  buckle  on  his  spurs,  which 
was  the  only  fault  ever  found  with  him  in  all  his  life. 

Without  spurs  he  could  not  urge  his  horse  as  swiftly 
as  the  other,  and  so  he  escaped. 

Once  inside  the  postern,  Dolfos,  in  mortal  fear  of 
those  within,  rushes  to  the  palace  and  flings  himself  at 
Dona  Urraca's  feet,  drawing  her  royal  mantle  over  him 
for  protection. 

But  when  her  foster-father,  Don  Arias,  knew  it,  he 
went  to  her  and  spoke: 

"My  Infanta,  you  cannot  harbour  this  traitor,  other- 
wise all  the  Castilians  outside  will  accuse  you  of 
murder." 

"What  can  I  do?"  she  answers.  "See  how  he 
clings  to  my  robe." 

She  knew  she  had  encouraged  him  in  what  he  had 
done,  and  in  the  letters  she  had  written,  and  fain  would 
she  have  saved  him.  But  Don  Arias  would  listen  to 
nothing. 

"Give  Dolfos  up  to  me;"  and  he  drew  him  away 
by  force,  the  poor  wretch  trembling  all  over,  with  no 
strength  to  stand.  "Come,  Dolfos,"  says  Don  Arias, 
"be  of  good  cheer;  to  please  the  Infanta,  I  will  hide 
you  three  days  in  my  house.  If  the  Castihans  impeach 
us,  I  must  give  you  up.  If  they  do  not,  you  shall 
escape  from  the  town.  Here  you  cannot  bide,  for 
we  are  honourable  men,  and  keep  no  company  with 
traitors." 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  27  I 

After  King  Sancho's  death  came  Don  Alfonso,  to 
be  known  as  El  Sabio,  to  join  his  sister  at  Zanciora,  who 
had  always  loved  him  well. 

A  council  was  called  in  the  palace.  The  Castilians, 
Navarrese,  Leonese,  and  the  Gallegos,  being  already 
his  subjects,  are  ready  to  acknowledge  him  as  king  if 
he  can  clear  himself  of  all  knowledge  of  the  murder  of 
his  brother. 

The  Ricoshombres,  counts  and  knights,  the  pre- 
lates and  chief  persons  have  already  kissed  his  hand; 
but  the  Cid  sits  apart.  The  image  of  his  dead  master 
rises  up  between  him  and  Alfonso.  It  was  he  who  had 
found  Don  Sancho  by  the  side  of  the  Douro  wounded 
to  death  by  his  own  hunting-spear,  which  he  dared  not 
draw  forth  for  fear  of  killing  him  outright. 

"Now,  how  is  this,  Cid  Campeador?"  asks  the  new 
king,  who,  in  majesty  of  person  and  of  speech  and 
wisdom,  was  much  more  like  his  sister  Dona  Urraca 
than  Don  Sancho.  "See  you  not  that  all  have  received 
me  for  their  lord  except  you?  Why  have  you  not  kissed 
my  hand?" 

"Sir,"  answers  the  Cid,  rising  from  where  he  sat, 
"the  reason  is  this:  all  these  present,  as  well  as  I, 
suspect  you  of  having  compassed  your  brother's  death. 
Unless  you  can  clear  yourself,  I  will  never  kiss  your 
hand  or  acknowledge  you  as  king." 

"Your  words  please  me  well,"  is  the  king's  reply, 
spoken  softly,  but  rage  was  in  his  heart.  "I  swear  to 
God  and  St.  Mary  I  never  slew  him  or  took  counsel  of 
his  death,  and  I  will  clear  myself  of  the  charge  by  oath 
within  the  Church  of  Sant'  Agueda  at  Burgos." 


272  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

The  ancient  Church  of  St.  Gaden  or  Sant'  Agueda, 
not  far  from  the  Suelos  of  the  Cid,  and  where  he  was 
married,  is  filled  with  the  noblest  company  in  Castile; 
the  Cid,  towering  over  all,  at  the  high  altar,  in  chain 
armour  from  top  to  heel,  his  good  sword  Tizona  at  his 
side,  and  in  his  hand  a  cross-bow  of  wood  and  steel. 

Face  to  face  is  King  Alfonso  in  royal  robes,  his 
hand  upon  a  painted  missal  beside  the  Host. 

"King  Don  Alfonso,"  says  the  Cid,  in  his  terrible 
voice,  so  well  known  in  the  battle-field,  "will  you 
swear  that  you  have  not  compassed  the  death  of  my 
king  and  master,  your  brother  Don  Sancho?  If  you 
swear  falsely,  may  you  die  the  death  of  a  traitor  and  a 
slave." 

To  which  King  Alfonso,  joining  his  hands  on  the 
Cid's,  answers,  "Amen." 

But  he  changed  colour. 

Then  the  Cid  repeats  a  second  time,  "King  Don 
Alfonso,  will  you  further  swear  you  neither  counselled 
nor  favoured  the  murder  of  the  king,  your  brother,  and 
my  master?  If  you  swear  falsely,  may  you  die  the 
death  of  a  traitor  and  a  slave." 

Again  the  king  presses  his  hand  and  answers, 
"Amen." 

But  he  cha?iged  colour. 

Then  came  forth  twelve  vassals  who  confirmed  the 
king's  word,  and  the  Cid  was  at  last  satisfied,  and  the 
knights  also  said  "Amen."  The  Cid  would  have  em- 
braced the  king,  but  he  turned  away,  and  though  he 
had   shown   himself  invincible,   the   king   banished  him 

(108 1). 

Then  the  Cid  sent  for  all  his  kinsmen  and  vassals 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN.  IJ ^ 

and  asked  who  would  follow  him,  and  who  remain  at 
home? 

"We  will  all  go  with  you,"  answers  his  cousin,  Alvar 
Fanez,  "and  be  your  loyal  friends." 

"I  thank  you,"  replies  the  Cid.  "The  time  will 
come  when  I  shall  reward  you  tenfold." 

CHAPTER    XXXn. 

THE   CID  BIDS  DONA  XIMENA  FAREWELL. 

When  the  Cid  returned  to  Burgos,  men  and  women 
went  forth  to  look  at  him,  others  were  on  the  roofs  and 
at  the  windows  weeping,  so  great  was  the  sorrow  at  the 
manner  of  his  return.  Everyone  desired  to  welcome 
him,  but  no  one  dared,  for  King  Don  Alfonso  had  sent 
letters  to  say  "None  should  give  the  Cid  lodging  or 
food,  and  that  whoever  disobeyed  should  lose  all  he 
had,  and  the  eyes  out  of  his  head." 

The  Cid  went  up  Calle  Alta  to  his  Suelos,  but  he 
found  the  door  fastened  for  fear  of  the  king.  He  called 
out  with  a  loud  voice,  but  no  one  answered.  Then  he 
took  his  foot  out  of  the  stirrup  and  gave  it  a  kick,  but 
the  lock  stood  firm,  being  well  secured.  The  only  one 
who  appeared  was  a  little  girl  nine  years  old,  who  ran 
out  of  one  of  the  houses  near. 

"  O  Cid,  we  dare  not  open  our  doors  to  you,  for  we 
should  lose  all  we  have,  and  the  eyes  in  our  heads. 
This  would  not  help  you,  dear  Cid.  But  we  pray  that 
God  and  His  angels  may  keep  you.     Adios." 

When  the  Cid  understood  what  the  king  had  done, 
he  turned  his  horse  aside  to  St.  Mary's  chapel  (at  the 
gateway),   and   knelt   and  prayed  with  all  his  heart  at 

Old  Court  Life  in  Spain.   I.  1 8 


2  74  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

the  altar,  then  rode  out  of  the  town  and  pitched  his 
tent  on  the  banks  of  the  Arlanzon. 

At  this  time  occurred  his  deaUng  with  the  Jews. 

The  Cid's  purse  was  empty,  and  he  must  fill  it. 
"Take  two  chests,"  he  said  to  his  nephew,  "and  fill 
them  with  sand,  and  go  to  Rachel  and  Vidal  and  bid 
them  come  hither  privately,  because  I  cannot  take  my 
treasure  with  me  on  horseback,  and  money  I  must  have 
before  I  start.  Let  them  come  for  the  chests  at  night 
when  no  one  will  see.  God  knows  I  do  not  this  willingly, 
but  of  necessity,  and  I  will  redeem  all." 

Martin  Antolinez  did  as  he  was  told.  To  the  Jews 
he  said,  "If  you  give  me  your  hands  that  you  do  not 
betray  me  to  Christian  or  Moor,  you  shall  be  rich  men 
for  ever!  The  Campeador  has  great  wealth  in  tribute. 
He  has  two  chests  full  of  gold.  He  will  leave  them  in 
your  hands,  and  you  shall  lend  him  money  upon  them, 
if  you  swear  solemnly  not  to  open  the  chests  nor  look 
at  the  gold." 

The  confiding  Jews  swore  by  Father  Abraham,  gave 
the  money,  and  received  the  chests.  They  were  covered 
with  leather,  red  and  gold,  the  nails  gilt,  and  the  sides 
ribbed  with  bars  of  iron;  each  chest  was  fastened  by 
a  lock,  and  they  were  very  heavy,  being  filled  with 
sand.  The  Jews  came  to  the  Cid's  tent  and  kissed  his 
hand,  then,  spreading  a  sheet  on  the  carpet,  they 
counted  out  the  gold,  and  also  gave  a  handsome  present 
to  his  nephew. 

"Let  us  be  gone,"  whispered  Martin  into  the  Cid's 
ear,  not  at  all  ashamed.  So  at  cock-crow  they  started 
to  meet  Dona  Ximena  at  San  Pedro  de  Cardenia.  (In 
the  chapel  of  Santa  Isabel,  outside  the  Puerta  del  Sar- 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  ^75 

mental  of  the  cathedral,  is  still  to  be  seen  one  of  these 
chests,  called  the  "  Co/re  del  Cid/'  clamped  with  iron 
and  nailed  up  to  the  wall.) 

At  San  Pedro  the  Cid  found  Ximena  and  his  two 
little  daughters.  "Abbot,"  he  said,  addressing  himself 
to  the  priest,  "I  commend  my  two  little  ninas  to  your 
care.  Take  care  of  them  while  I  fight,  and  my  wife 
and  her  ladies,  and  when  the  money  I  now  give  you  is 
done,  supply  them  all  the  same,  for  every  mark  I  will 
hereafter  give  you  four."     And  the  abbot  promised. 

Dona  Ximena  and  her  daughters  kissed  the  Cid, 
and  she  knelt  down  at  his  feet  weeping  bitterly. 

The  Cid,  whose  heart  was  tender  for  his  own  how- 
ever hard  with  his  enemies,  wept  too,  and  took  the 
children  in  his  arms,  for  he  dearly  loved  them. 

"My  dear  and  honoured  wife,"  he  said,  "cheer  up, 
I  shall  yet  live  to  give  these  children  in  marriage  to 
great  lords.  Have  faith  in  me,  Ximena,  whom  I  love 
as  my  own  soul." 

Again  and  again  the  Cid  commended  Ximena  to 
the  abbot,  then  he  and  all  the  knights  loosened  the 
reins  of  their  horses  and  pricking  forward  to  the  Sierra 
entered  into  the  country  of  the  Moors. 

CHAPTER    XXXIII. 
ADVENTURES   OF  THE   CID. DEATH  AND   BURIAL. 

From  this  time  began  that  life  of  knight  errantry 
which  has  made  the  Cid  famous  in  all  ages. 

First  he  betook  himself  to  the  court  of  the  Count 
of  Barcelona,  but  not  agreeing  with  him,  passed  into 
the  service  of  the  Sheikh  Mostadri,  the  most  powerful 
of  the  Moslem  princes  of  Saragoza.    At  his  death,  which 

i8* 


276  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

occurred  soon  after,  the  Cid  continued  with  his  eldest 
son,  Montamin,  and  assisted  him  against  his  two  brothers 
with  prodigies  of  valour. 

In  five  days  he  overran  Aragon  and  harried  a  large 
tract  ofcountry  for  spoil,  returning  in  triumph  to  Saragoza, 
bringing  with  him  prisoner  the  Count  of  Barcelona. 

"Blessed  be  God  and  all  His  saints,"  said  the  Cid 
to  his  followers.  "By  this  victory  we  have  bettered  our 
quarters  for  horses  and  for  men.  Hear  me,  all  you 
knights,"  and  he  raises  his  mighty  voice,  "we  shall  get 
nothing  by  killing  these  Moors.  Let  us  make  them  show 
us  the  treasures  they  have  hidden  in  their  houses.  That 
will  serve  us  better  than  their  death." 

All  this  and  much  more  was  done,  as  the  Cid  said, 
"por  murzar."  Enemies  or  friends,  money  must  be  had. 

But  the  great  feat  of  the  Cid's  life  is  his  conquest 
of  Valencia,  where  he  was  called  to  protect  the  Sheikh 
Yahia  along  with  the  Moorish  king  of  Saragoza.  Upon 
whatever  cause  he  went  (and  the  chronicles  are  extremely 
confused  after  he  took  service  with  the  Moslem),  ambi- 
tion was  his  motive  and  pillage  his  object. 

From  Jativa,  on  the  hills  over  the  sea,  he  came 
down  with  his  army  into  the  Huerta,  an  unexampled 
garden,  beautiful  in  all  time:  woods  of  palm  and  orange 
trees,  fences  of  aloes  and  prickly  pear,  the  glory  of  the 
Roman,  the  pleasaunce  of  the  Goth,  the  delight  of  the 
Arab,  who  declared  "that  heaven  had  fallen  here." 

Valencia  itself  lies  sweetly  on  either  side  of  a  river, 
the  banks  breaking  into  bosquets  and  gardens,  with  tall 
towers  shooting  into  the  blue  sky.  El  Mignelete,  square 
and  Gothic,  its  rival  Aliberfar,  all  points,  minarets  and 
domes, — the  Zeca  (bazaar)  and  Alcazar, — bridge,  twelve 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  277 

gates  and  tapia  battlements,  turreted  and  machicolated, 
hemmed  in  by  fruitful  plains,  the  rich  country  studded 
with  posadas  and  quintas  to  the  sea-shore,  about  a  mile 
distant. 

The  Moorish  Sheikh  Yahia  received  the  Cid  honour- 
ably, and  gave  him  a  great  revenue  in  return  for  his 
protection.     But  this  did  not  last  long. 

Seeing  how  powerful  he  was,  King  Alfonso  suddenly 
claimed  all  his  conquests  as  his  suzerain,  which  led  to 
further  strife  between  them,  Alfonso  attacking  Valencia 
in  his  absence  with  the  Moors  to  gain  it  for  himself;  in 
revenge  for  which  act  of  treason  the  Campeador  carried 
his  arms  into  his  own  land,  Castile,  destroying  castles 
and  sacking  towns.  "Make  war  and  deceive/'  is  his 
motto  now.  He  had  learnt  it  from  the  Moors,  and 
acted  up  to  it  till  he  died.  Still  in  his  heart  he  loved 
the  country  where  he  was  born  and  where  he  had  left 
his  wife  and  children,  only  that  he  hated  King  Alfonso 
more. 

On  his  return  the  gates  of  Valencia  are  shut  against 
him,  and  the  terrible  siege  began,  the  Cid  attacking  the 
city  as  cruelly  as  he  could,  and  food  becoming  dearer 
every  day,  till  at  last  it  was  not  to  be  had.  The  people 
carried  off  in  waves  of  death,  dropping  and  dying  in  the 
streets,  the  Alcazar  full  of  corpses,  and  no  grave  with 
less  than  ten  bodies  in  it. 

At  last  the  gates  were  opened  to  him  by  his  friend, 
Abeniaf,  the  Adelantado,  in  return  for  which  he  had 
him  first  stoned,  then  burned  alive  in  the  Plaza. 

In  these  days  one  seeks  in  vain  for  the  noble  qualities 
of  Ruy  Diaz  de  Bivar.     The  only  excuse  to  be  found 


278  OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN. 

is  the  harshness  and  injustice  with  which  Don  Alfonso 
treated  him. 

Valencia  surrendered  in  June,  1694,  and  the  Cid  at 
once  bethought  him  of  his  wife  and  children,  now 
grown  up  to  womanhood,  left  in  the  Abbey  of  St.  Peter, 
and  sent  his  nephew  Alvar  Fanez  and  Martino  Antolinez, 
with  two  hundred  knights,  on  a  mission  to  the  king. 
He  also  sent  money  to  redeem  the  debt  of  the  chests 
filled  with  sand,  and  to  excuse  himself  to  the  Jews, 
Rachel  and  Vedas,  for  having  cheated  them  in  his  great 
need. 

"What  tidings  bring  you  me  of  the  Cid?"  asks  the 
king  (of  Alvar  and  Martino),  whom  they  find  in  the  city 
of  Burgos. 

Then  Alvar  stood  out  and  spake  boldly:  "The  tid- 
ings are  good.  Sir  King,  but  we  come  to  ask  a  boon, 
for  the  love  of  your  Maker.  You  banished  the  Cid 
from  the  land,  and  behold,  he  has  won  six  pitched 
battles  against  the  Moors,  also  the  city  of  Valencia; 
and  he  places  all  he  has  at  your  feet,  if  of  your 
bounty  he  may  have  his  wife  and  his  daughters  with 
him  there." 

"It  pleases  me  well,"  is  the  king's  answer.  "I  will 
give  them  a  guard  through  Castile.  When  they  have 
passed  it,  the  Cid  Campeador  will  look  after  them  him- 
self Moreover,  I  grant  him  Valencia  and  all  that  he 
has  won  as  his  own,  to  be  held  under  me,  who  am  his 
liege  lord  and  suzerain." 

Great  joy  was  there  at  San  Pedro  de  Cardenia  when 
the  knights  appeared.  Dona  Ximena  and  her  daughters 
running  out  on  foot  to  meet  them,  and  weeping  pleiite- 
ously  for  joy. 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  LV   SPALV.  279 

"And  how  does  my  dear  lord  fare?"  asks  the  gentle 
Dona  Ximena,  wiping  her  eyes.  "In  all  these  years  I 
have  had  no  news  of  him." 

"Well,  and  safe  and  sound,"  answers  Alvar  Fanez, 
saluting  her.  "Be  of  good  cheer,  my  cousin,  for  the 
great  city  of  Valencia  is  his,  and  his  heart's  desire  is  to 
see  you  and  have  you  with  him  there." 

"Alas!  what  am  I,"  cries  poor  Ximena,  ever  humble 
in  her  mind,  "that  he  should  show  me  this  favour  after 
so  many  years !  God  and  the  Virgin .  be  thanked  for 
his  constancy." 

When  they  were  within  three  miles  of  Valencia, 
under  the  thick  shade  of  the  orange  woods  of  the 
Huerta,  word  of  their  coming  was  brought  to  the  Cid, 
who  ordered  that  Bavieca  should  be  saddled,  and  girt 
on  his  sword. 

He  was  much  changed.  He  had  the  same  com- 
manding aspect  and  far-seeing  eyes,  but  his  white  beard 
was  so  long  and  flowing,  it  was  a  wonder  to  behold. 
No  man  ever  put  his  hand  on  it  in  life  but  himself,  nor 
touched  it  with  a  razor,  and  when  he  fought  it  was 
screwed  up  like  a  curl  under  his  chin.  Every  gesture 
was  imperious,  as  of  a  king.  At  that  time,  indeed,  no 
king  in  Spain  could  compare  with  the  Cid  in  power. 

"Dear  and  honoured  wife,"  he  exclaims,  as  he  em- 
braces Dona  Ximena,  who  received  him  on  her  knees, 
"and  you,  my  daughters,  come  with  me  into  Valencia, 
the  inheritance  I  have  won  for  you." 

He  leads  them  through  the  gate  called  "  of  the  Snake," 
then  mounts  into  the  famous  tower  of  the  Mignelete, 
now  the  Campanile  of  the  Cathedral, — and  in  the  clear 


2  50  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

transparent  air  shows  them  the  city  which  lies  at  their 
feet,  the  green  Huerta,  thick  with  shade,  and  the  blue 
ocean  beyond,  on  which  ride  the  ships  of  the  King  of 
Morocco,  come  to  besiege  the  city,  a  sight  which  made 
poor  Ximena  tremble. 

But  the  Cid  comforted  her. 

"You  shall  see  with  your  own  eyes  how  I  fight,  and 
how  I  gain  our  bread.  Fear  not,  honoured  wife,"  seeing 
that  Ximena's  courage  fails  her,  "my  heart  kindles  to 
the  fight  because  you  are  here.  More  Moors,  more 
gain—" 

The  tambours  of  the  enemy  now  sound  a  great 
alarm,  but  the  Cid  smiles  and  strokes  his  beard,  gaz- 
ing fondly  on  Ximena,  now  a  wrinkled  woman  in  middle 
age. 

"Dear  wife,  look  boldly  out  over  Valencia.  All  this 
1  give  you  for  a  marriage  gift.  I  have  won  it,  and  I 
will  send  the  King  of  Morocco  packing  to  whence  he 
came.  In  fifteen  days,  please  God,  his  ratthng  tam- 
bours shall  be  hung  up  in  the  Church  of  St  Mary. 
Pray  God  I  may  live  for  your  sakes,  and  still  overcome 
the  Moor!" 

Thus  speaking,  they  descend  the  tower  and  enter 
the  Alcazar,  all  gold  and  painted  walls  on  stone  and 
wood,  in  the  Arab  manner,  with  hangings  above  and 
below,  purple  and  crimson,  and  rich  cloths  thick  with 
gold  and  silver,  and  take  their  seats  on  benches  set 
with  precious  stones,  the  Cid  placing  himself  on  an 
ivory  divan  Hke  a  throne. 

About  this  time  King  Alfonso  and  the  Cid  met  at 
last  as  friends  on  the  banks  of  the  Tagus,   a  river  of 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  28  I 

very  rapid  flood,  where  tents  were  pitched  and  many 
knights  assembled. 

The  Cid  knelt  on  the  ground  before  him,  and  would 
have  kissed  his  foot  in  the  jewelled  stirrup,  but  King 
Alfonso  cried  out:  "My  hand,  Cid  Campeador,  my 
hand!"  and  embracing  him  said  he  forgave  him  with 
all  his  heart  (the  Cid  still  on  his  knees),  then  raised  him 
up  and  gave  him  the  kiss  of  peace. 

Afterwards  they  ate  together,  and  Alfonso  proposed 
his  kinsmen,  the  two  Infantes  of  Currion,  as  husbands 
to  the  Cid's  two  daughters,  Elvira  and  Sol.  Very  scorn- 
ful and  haughty  young  princes  they  were,  who  did  not 
please  the  Cid  nor  Dona  Ximena  at  all,  but  the  Cid 
dared  not  say  "No,"  on  account  of  the  king. 

The  marriages  indeed  turned  out  ill;  and  the  dames 
were  afterwards  affianced  to  Don  Sancho  of  Aragon, 
and  the  Infante  Ramiro  of  Navarre.  The  Infantes  of 
Currion  were  dismissed  and  dishonoured  for  their  crimes, 
at  the  Cortes  held  in  the  palace  of  Burgos,  before 
Alfonso,  the  Cid  sitting  beside  him,  within  the  golden 
estrado,  on  the  ivory  divan  he  had  taken  from  the  Moors 
— a  throne,  in  fact,  which  had  served  a  sheikh — a  great 
triumph  for  him,  at  Burgos  especially,  his  native  city, 
where  he  had  begged  in  vain  for  bread  and  was  forced 
to  cheat  the  Jews  to  fill  his  purse! 

The  Cid  was  in  the  prime  of  life,  untouched  by  the 
hand  of  time,  lord  of  a  great  capital  and  of  a  powerful 
state — far-seeing  and  wise,  heroically  audacious  in  all  he 
did,  capable  of  love,  yet  tremendous  in  hate.  "Our 
Cid,"  as  the  people  called  him,  "born  in  a  happy  hour," 
none  dreaming  of  a  united  kingdom  of  which  he  was  to 
be  the  head,  when  he  was  struck  in  the  midst  of  his 
career  by  the  hand  of  death. 


282  OLD    COURT  LIFE  LV  SPAi:^. 

"Be  you  sure,"  he  says  to  his  household  and  his 
companions  in  arm,  whom  he  had  called  together,  "that 
I  am  at  the  end  of  my  life.  In  thirty  days  I  shall  die. 
More  than  once  lately  I  have  seen  my  father,  Don  Diego 
Laynez,  and  the  son  whom  I  lost.  They  say  to  me 
each  time,  'You  have  tarried  on  earth  too  long,  come 
now  with  us,  among  the  people  who  live  for  ever.'" 

After  this,  having  sickened  of  the  malady  of  which 
he  died,  he  called  for  the  casket  of  gold  in  which  was 
the  balsam  and  the  myrrh  the  Soldan  of  Persia  had 
given  him,  and  he  drank  it,  and,  for  the  seven  days 
which  he  lived,  he  neither  ate  nor  drank  aught  else, 
and  his  body  and  his  countenance  appeared  fairer  and 
fresher  and  his  voice  clearer,  though  he  waxed  weaker 
and  weaker. 

On  the  day  before  he  departed,  he  called  for  Dona 
Ximena  and  his  nephew  Alvar  Fanez,  and  directed  them 
what  to  do  after  his  death. 

"You  know,"  he  says,  "that  the  King  Bucar,  of 
Morocco,  will  presently  return  to  besiege  the  city;  there- 
fore, when  I  am  dead,  make  no  cries  or  lamentations, 
but  wash  my  body  and  dry  it  well,  and  anoint  it  with 
the  myrrh  and  balsam  out  of  the  gold  casket,  from 
head  to  foot;  then  saddle  you  my  horse  Babieca,  and 
arm  her  as  for  battle,  apparel  my  body  as  I  went  in 
life  against  the  Moors,  and  set  me  on  her  back,  and  tie 
me  fast,  so  as  not  to  fall,  and  fix  my  good  sword 
Tizona  in  my  hand,  and  when  thus  accoutred  lead  me 
out  against  the  king,  whom  God  has  delivered  into  my 
hands." 

Three  days  after  the  Cid  died  (1099).  On  the 
morning  of  the  twelfth  day,  when  all  was  ready,  as  the 
Cid   had   commanded,   they   went   against  the  army  of 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  28 


the  Moor  and  prevailed,  and  the  dead  body  of  the  Cid 
left  Valencia,  on  his  horse  Babieca,  armed  at  all  points 
and  passed  through  the  camp  of  the  Moors,  followed  by 
Dona  Ximena  and  his  trusty  friends — taking  the  road 
for  the  monastery  of  San  Pedro  de  Gardenia,  near  Burgos, 
where  he  was  to  be  interred;  and  the  king  came  from 
Toledo  to  meet  them. 

When  they  took  the  Cid  from  off  his  horse  and  set 
him  on  a  frame  before  the  altar,  so  fair  and  comely  did 
he  appear,  Dona  Ximena  entreated  the  king  not  to  have 
the  body  laid  in  a  coffin  underground.  So  King  Alfonso 
sent  to  Burgos  for  the  ivory  divan  on  which  the  Cid  had 
sat  as  king  at  the  Cortes,  and  gave  orders  that  he  should 
be  placed  in  it,  to  the  right  of  the  altar,  and  a  graven 
tabernacle  placed  over  him,  bearing  the  blazon  of  Castile 
and  Leon,  Navarre  and  Aragon,  and  his  own  arms  as 
the  Cid  Ruy  Diaz  the  Campeador.  There  it  was  left 
for  ten  years,  and  when  the  garments  waxed  old  others 
were  put  on. 

In  a  side  capella  of  the  Church  of  San  Pedro,  five 
miles  from  Burgos,  the  square  monument  of  the  Cid  is 
still  to  be  seen.  It  is  much  mutilated,  but  his  lofty 
figure  can  still  be  traced  on  the  lid,  wearing  a  coat  of 
mail  and  grasping  his  double-hilted  sword  Tizona,  the 
effigy  of  the  faithful  Ximena  at  his  side. 

Legend  says  that  while  the  body  was  left  alone  in 
the  church  before  being  interred,  it  was  visited  by  a 
Jew,  who,  wagging  his  head,  contemptuously  contem- 
plated the  face  of  the  dead  hero  and  his  sacred  beard, 
of  which  the  Cid  had  said,  "Thanks  be  to  God,  it  is 
long  because  I  keep  it  for  my  pleasure,  and  never  a  son 
of  Moor  or  Jew  has  dared  to  touch  it." 

"Yes,"    said   the   Jew   to   himself,    recalling   all   the 


284  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

cruelties  of  which  he  had  been  guilty  towards  his  race, 
"you  are  the  great  Cid,  low  enough  now,  and  that  is 
your  fine  black  beard,  grey  and  thin,  of  which  you  were 
so  proud.  I  should  like  to  see  what  you  will  do  to  me 
if  I  pluck  it."  At  which  he  stretched  forth  his  hand, 
but  drew  it  back  sharp  enough  when,  with  a  hollow 
sound,  the  dead  hand  seized  the  hilt  of  Tizona  and 
drew  forth  the  blade  more  than  half  a  palm.  Down  fell 
the  Jew  in  a  fit,  and  in  rushed  the  priests,  and  lo!  the 
dead  hand  still  grasped  Tizona,  and  the  fierce  eyes 
seemed  to  roll.  Who,  after  such  an  experience,  would 
dare  to  trifle  with  the  remains  of  the  Cid? 

At  the  present  time  these  remains  are  said  to  be 
deposited  at  the  Ayuntamiento  at  Burgos,  in  a  case  of 
walnut  wood,  in  the  centre  of  a  large  hall,  along  with 
the  skeleton  of  poor  Ximena,  still  faithful  to  him  in 
death. 

CHAPTER    XXXIV. 
FERNANDO    EL    SANTO. 

After  the  death  of  Alfonso  El  Valiente,  which 
followed  close  upon  that  of  the  Cid,  our  Old  Court  Life 
brings  us  to  the  reign  of  Fernando  El  Santo,  third  of 
that  name — 12 17 — brother  of  that  well-beloved  Eleanor, 
Queen  of  Edward  the  First,  destined  to  conquer  Seville 
after  five  hundred  years  of  Moslem  rule,  the  first  Chris- 
tian king  who  inhabited  the  Alcazar. 

With  Fernando  the  shadow  of  a  great  king  rises 
before  us.  He  wears  a  high  pointed  crown  surrounded 
by  a  glory,  his  face  is  set  and  stern,  with  the  prominent 
far-seeing  eyes  of  a  prophet,  his  features  aquiline  and 
pure;  his  hair  fair  and  curly,  thrown  back  as  if  in  an 
ecstasy,  and  a  full  beard  covers  his  closely  shut  mouth 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  285 

and  finely  modelled  chin.  It  is  an  essentially  modern 
countenance  for  the  time  in  which  he  lived,  full  of  Hfe 
and  expression,  only  the  stiff  ruff  round  the  long  neck 
is  old  Castilian,  and  the  heavy  armour  in  which  the  tall, 
stalwart  body  is  encased  very  different  from  the  elegance 
in  wrought  steel  and  gold  which  was  manufactured  by 
the  Moors. 

Around  him  hang  the  ample  folds  of  a  royal  mantle, 
a  deep  ermine  collar  descending  to  his  waist.  In  one 
hand  he  carries  a  drawn  sword,  in  the  other  the  globe 
of  empire  and  the  keys  of  Seville. 

Thus  he  is  to  be  seen  in  a  statue  in  the  Cathedral 
of  Seville,  and  in  a  curious  painting  by  Murillo  in  the 
Library,  the  reproduction  of  some  earlier  likeness. 

When  not  bearing  arms  against  the  Moors  he  oc- 
cupied himself  in  burning  them,  for  in  religious  zeal  he 
was  the  precursor  of  Torquemada,  the  parent  of  the 
Inquisition.  Indeed  the  malicious  chroniclers  insist  that 
he  was  "sainted"  for  carrying  faggots  to  the  stake  with 
his  own  hands. 

Not  an  attractive  monarch,  though  cousin  to  St.  Louis 
of  France,  whom  he  somewhat  resembles  in  person,  and 
his  emulator  in  crusades  against  the  heathen.  With  this 
difference:  no  crime  was  ever  imputed  to  the  French 
king,  who  died  tending  plague-stricken  Africans,  while 
the  record  of  much  cruelty  attaches  to  the  memory  of 
Fernando. 

Not  to  be  too  severe  on  him,  however,  it  must  be 
remembered  that  from  his  time  the  Castilian  Spaniards 
assumed  the  grave  and  dignified  demeanour  that  char- 
acterises them  to  this  day,  and  marks  them  as  a  race  at 
once  loyal,  valiant  and  sincere. 

Fernando    first    conquered   Cordoba,    occupied   the 


286  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

palace  of  the  great  Abdurraman,  and  actually  en- 
deavoured to  turn  the  inimitable  mosque  into  a  church. 
Happily  the  Moorish  architecture  was  too  much  for 
him;  a  mezginta  it  is,  and  mezquita  it  will  remain,  as 
long  as  horse-shoe  arch  and  pillar  hold  together. 

Cordoba  conquered,  Fernando  turned  his  victorious 
arms  against  the  capital  of  Andalusia,  for  call  it  as  you 
please,  Boetica  or  Italica,  Seville  was  and  ever  will  be 
the  chief  city  of  the  south — still  encircled  by  portions 
of  the  Roman  walls,  untouched  since  the  days  of  Caesar 
and  Pompey. 

There  were  seven  suburbs  and  as  many  gates,  and 
1 66  castellated  towers.  Azataff  was  the  Moorish  caliph 
who  held  it,  as  brave  a  knight  and  chivalric  a  prince  as 
ever  drew  blade. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  Guadalquivir,  by  the  white 
shores  of  Cadiz,  he  held  his  fleet,  and  his  vassals  and 
troops  were  with  him  in  the  Alcazar.  From  the  Patio 
de  las  Banderas  floated  his  flag,  a  black  crescent  and 
a  star  on  a  yellow  ground,  and  his  turbaned  body- 
guard thronged  the  walls. 

Fernando  fixed  his  camp  on  the  low  hills  over 
Sancti  Ponce.  In  such  a  world  of  flats  as  surround 
Seville  any  height  is  valuable,  and  he  seized  it  As  the 
eye  ranges  afar,  these  olive-planted  hills  appear  paltry 
and  monotonous,  but  they  command  the  city.  At  their 
base  winds  the  Guadalquivir  in  many  a  graceful  bend, 
otherwise  the  land  is  unprotected  to  the  sea. 

Not  only  did  Fernando  fix  his  camp  scientifically, 
but  he  was  expert  enough  to  understand  that  to  suc- 
ceed he  must  block  the  river.  A  fleet  of  Castilian  boats 
intercepted  the  Moorish  vessels  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Guadalquivir  at  Cadiz,  and  stopped  all  supplies. 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAllST.  287 

Such  were  the  dispositions  of  the  Castilian  king; 
and  as  the  siege  drew  on,  and  the  Christian  host  gazed 
down  upon  the  walls,  great  encouragement  came  to  them 
from  the  visible  interposition  of  the  Virgin  in  many- 
notable  visions  and  miracles. 

One  day  as  Don  Fernando  stands  at  the  entrance 
of  the  royal  tent,  casting  those  prominent  eyes  of  his 
across  the  plains,  and  counting  by  the  number  of  out- 
posts in  how  many  days  he  might  hope  to  plant  the 
flag  of  Castile  upon  the  Giralda  tower,  rising  so  tall  and 
graceful  before  him — he  beholds  a  Christian  knight  with 
a  companion  and  an  esquire  riding  by  the  bank  of  the 
river  below,  carelessly  as  a  man  who  takes  the  air  on  a 
fine  summer's  day,  and  loiters  on  the  way  the  better  to 
enjoy  it.  Lightly  the  knight  carried  his  lance  in  rest 
upon  his  thigh.  His  vizor  is  raised  over  a  bright  young 
face.  At  his  side  hangs  his  sword,  held  by  a  golden 
chain;  on  his  arm  flutters  a  scarf  striped  red  and  blue, 
and  the  same  colours  shine  radiant  in  the  sunshine  on 
the  plume  which  nods  from  his  helmet. 

"Now,  who  is  this  young  fool,"  cries  Fernando  in  a 
rage,  "who  dares  ride  forth  into  the  enemy's  camp  as  if 
he  were  the  herald  of  a  tournament?  Does  he  think 
that  I  allow  my  knights  thus  to  sacrifice  their  lives?  or 
that  he  has  a  right  to  risk  it?"  Then,  as  he  watches 
his  progress,  always  further  and  further  into  the  out- 
works of  the  Moor,  "Who  is  he?"  he  cries  again.  "Will 
no  one  tell  me  his  name?  Methinks  it  were  well  for 
him  he  had  shriven  himself  before  he  started,  or  his  soul 
will  be  the  worse  for  it  very  briefly." 

Before  the  king  could  be  answered,  a  loud  voice 
shouts  at  his  ear:  "Ride,  ride  for  your  life,  Garcia  Perez 


288  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

of  Varga.  I  see  the  gleam  of  Moorish  lances  near  at 
hand.     Ride  on,  or  you  are  lost." 

The  voice  that  shouted  was  that  of  the  Conde  Lorenzo, 
the  king's  Jefe,  who,  coming  up  behind  the  king  at  that 
moment,  and  having  longer  sight  than  his,  recognised 
Don  Garcia's  cognisance,  a  red  cross  and  a  green  tree, 
and  called  out  to  warn  him  of  his  danger. 

"Sire,"  says  he,  in  a  lower  tone,  bowing  before 
Fernando,  "pardon  me,  I  see  seven  Moors  on  horseback. 
They  are  in  ambuscade  in  that  wood  yonder.  They 
have  sighted  Don  Garcia,  and  are  waiting  to  break  out 
upon  him  as  he  passes.     Therefore  I  warned  him." 

"Don  Garcia  Perez  is  it?"  quoth  the  king,  his  eyes 
following  those  of  Count  Lorenzo  upon  the  plain.  "I 
could  lose  no  better  man.  For  die  he  will,  as  surely 
as  Christ  suffered  on  the  cross.  Blow  for  blow  he  will 
give  them,  but  seven  to  one  is  too  great  odds." 

As  to  Don  Garcia,  he  was  too  far  off  to  hear  any 
voice,  let  them  shout  ever  so  loudly.  On  he  rides 
tranquilly,  as  a  lover  to  his  mistress;  but  as  if  some  in- 
stinct suddenly  struck  him,  at  the  same  moment  that  the 
Conde  Lorenzo  called  out  to  him  from  the  hill,  he  lowers 
the  vizor  of  his  helmet,  crested  by  the  wing  of  a  black 
eagle,  grasps  the  hilt  of  his  lance  firmly  in  his  hand, 
and  turning  back  to  his  companion,  by  no  means  so 
well  armed  as  himself,  and  secretly  recommending  him- 
self to  every  saint  in  the  calendar,  "The  Moors  are  sure 
to  be  on  us,"  he  says,  "it  were  well  to  make  ready  for 
them.  Buckle  your  girths  tightly  and  take  care  they  do 
not  shake  you  from  the  saddle." 

Instead  of  answering,  Don  Juan  Attiz  (for  that  was  his 
name)  set  spurs  to  his  horse,  riding  furiously  towards  the 
back  camp,  leaving  Don  Garcia  alone  with  his  esquire. 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  2B() 

"Ha!  ha!  is  it  so?"  laughs  he,  watching  his  companion 
as  his  horse's  hoofs  tear  up  the  turf.  "Better  to  be  alone 
with  me,  Baldo"  (to  his  esquire),  "than  to  have  such  a 
coward  at  my  heels.     Hey!  for  Castile  and  Leon!" 

Now  softly,  one  by  one,  the  Moors  come  creeping 
out  from  their  ambush  in  the  wood  (there  was  no  mis- 
taking them  now,  the  sun  shone  upon  their  round  steel 
caps  and  their  smooth  shields),  one  by  one,  like  Agag, 
"delicately,''  until  seven  Moslem  knights  place  themselves 
across  the  path  by  which  Don  Garcia  rides,  the  last  one 
carrying  a  flag  bearing  the  mystic  symbol  of  an  open 
hand,  the  same  as  is  still  to  be  seen  carved  over  the 
principal  gateway  of  the  Alhambra. 

"By  Santiago!"  cries  King  Fernando,  anxiously  watch- 
ing from  the  hill.  "Observe  Don  Garcia.  The  seven 
Moors  are  ranging  themselves  on  the  grass.  Yet,  to  look 
at  them,  one  would  say  it  is  they  who  are  afraid,  not  he, 
he  rides  on  so  boldly." 

"And  so  it  is,  sire,"  answers  the  chamberlain,  his  eye 
fixed  on  the  plain;  "I  warrant  their  hearts  beat  louder 
than  his.  The  Moors  stand  back  in  line,  while  Garcia 
advances.  See,  now  he  pauses,  as  though  he  did  not 
see  them — pauses  and  speaks  to  his  esquire.  My  lord, 
you  will  soon  sing  a  Te  Deum  in  the  Seville  Mosque,  if 
all  your  army  be  as  brave  as  Don  Garcia." 

"Did  ever  man  behold  the  hke?"  replies  King 
Fernando,  shading  his  eyes  the  better  to  observe  him. 
"Now  Garcia  is  taking  off  his  casque.  He  is  wiping  his 
head.  He  is  calling  his  esquire  up  beside  him.  God 
be  thanked  we  have  such  Christian  knights!  May  the 
Blessed  Virgin  guard  him,  and  bring  him  safe  back." 

Old  Court  Life  in  Spain.  /.  19 


290  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

"Come  hither,"  Don  Garcia  is  saying  to  his  esquire, 
taking  no  more  notice  of  the  seven  Moors  than  if  they 
were  seven  statues;  while  they,  in  their  turn,  mark  with 
dismay  the  red  cross  and  the  green  tree  emblazoned  on 
his  shield.  Too  well  they  know  that  device,  and  when 
they  see  whom  they  have  waylaid  they  wish  themselves 
elsewhere. 

"Come  hither,  the  sun  is  hot  upon  my  head.  Take 
my  casque  from  me  and  hold  it  for  awhile;  there  is  no 
need  why  I  should  heat  myself  with  such  a  weight." 

As  he  speaks,  he  lifts  his  arm  to  remove  his  casque, 
and  behold,  his  striped  scarf  has  vanished.  "Alas!  how 
have  I  lost  it?"  he  cries  in  much  distress.  "I  must 
have  dropped  it  but  a  moment  ago.  Now,  I  would 
rather  fight  ten  battles  than  lose  that  scarf  My  liege 
lady  worked  it  for  me  and  bound  it  on  my  arm  long 
ago,  and  there  I  have  worn  it  ever  since.  Find  it  I 
will,  or  I  will  die  for  it." 

As  he  speaks  Don  Garcia  turns  himself  round  in  his 
saddle  unhelmeted  as  he  was,  his  hair  flying  in  the 
breeze,  and  gazes  eagerly  upon  the  path  by  which  he 
had  come,  a  track  upon  the  greensward. 

Then  for  the  first  time  he  raises  his  eyes  upon  the 
Moors,  seven  knights  ranged  in  a  line,  wearing  green 
turbans  on  their  helmets  and  carrying  lances  in  their 
hands;  and  there,  suspended  upon  the  point  of  a  spear, 
is  his  scarf  striped  white  and  red — a  Moslem  had  picked 
it  up  and  looped  it  there. 

"Now,  by  my  faith!"  said  Garcia,  considering  them 
with  a  frown,  "these  are  uncourteous  enemies.  Folks 
say  the  unbelievers  exceed  us  in  that  quality,  but  it  is 
not  so.  They  have  come  out  to  steal,  these  Moslem 
dogs.     They  shall  pay  for  it     No  Moor  that  ever  lived 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  2gi 

shall  ride  back  into  Seville  and  call  that  scarf  his  own ! 
Come  on,  ye  thieves  and  robbers!  give  me  my  lady's 
token!" 

As  he  spoke,  Don  Garcia  falls  upon  them  and  hacks 
and  hews  them  with  such  deadly  blows  right  and  left, 
that  ere  much  time  is  passed  such  as  are  not  dead  are 
scouring  the  plain  to  Seville. 

Fernando,  watching  anxiously  from  the  hill,  still 
sees  Don  Garcia  on  the  plain.  Again  he  is  alone,  now 
he  is  fastening  the  scarf,  which  his  esquire  has  unloosed 
from  the  Moorish  spear,  securely  upon  his  arm.  Then, 
humming  a  roundelay,  he  girds  his  sword,  streaming 
with  blood,  upon  his  thigh,  and  turning  his  horse's  head 
towards  the  Christian  camp,  rides  gaily  up  the  hill, 
four  green  turbaned  heads  dangling  from  his  saddle-bow. 

Meanwhile  the  Jefe  is  telling  the  king  a  pleasant 
tale  of  Don  Garcia's  brother,  Don  Diego  de  Varga,  who, 
having  snapped  his  sword  in  the  heat  of  an  engagement 
outside  Xerez,  tore  up  by  the  roots  a  wild  olive  tree, 
and  laid  about  him  with  such  fury  among  the  Moors, 
that  to  this  day  he  is  known  by  the  name  of  ''£/ 
Machuca,"  (the  Pounder). 

For  sixteen  months  the  Caliph  Azataff  gallantly 
defended  the  walls  of  Seville,  but  before  an  army  of  such 
chivalric  knights  and  a  king  prepared  for  canonisation, 
what  city  could  hope  to  stand? 

On  the  23rd  November  {el  dia  de  San  Clemente) 
the  strong  fortress  of  the  Alcazar  is  stormed  and 
Azataff  capitulates.  Then,  amid  an  incredible  blare  of 
trumpets  and  fifes,  ringing  of  bells  and  beating  of 
drums,   King  Fernando,  in  a  suit  of  fine  steel  armour, 

19* 


2g2  OLD  COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

a  royal  crown  of  wrought  gold  encircling  his  casque, 
and  mounted  on  a  graceful  Andalusian  charger  capari- 
soned with  silver  housings,  enters  the  gate  nearest  to 
the  river  on  the  north,  from  henceforth  to  be  known  as 
"La  Puerta  del  Trionfo."  By  his  side  rides  Don 
Garcia  de  Varga  and  his  brother  Don  Diego  (whom  it 
is  said  the  immortal  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha  chose 
as  his  model  for  tearing  up  the  wild  oak-tree,  and  which 
act  of  valour  he  proposed  to  perform  equally),  the 
Conde  Lorenzo,  the  Lord  of  Haro,  Pelayo  Correa,  the 
Master  of  Santiago,  and  many  other  champions  of 
the  times. 

Over  Fernando's  head  waves  the  banner  of  Castile, 
the  Golden  Castle  and  the  Lion  of  Leon,  his  hand  rest- 
ing upon  the  hilt  of  that  same  iron  sword,  still  to  be 
seen  in  the  sacristy  at  Seville,  and  fixed  on  his  saddle- 
bow a  small  ivory  statue  of  the  Virgen  de  los  Reyes, 
which  accompanied  him  everywhere. 

The  procession  is  superb.  First,  men-at-arms  bear- 
ing the  escutcheons  of  the  twin  kingdoms  he  rules  and 
the  black  standards  and  flags  captured  from  the  Moors, 
a  long  string  of  swarthy  prisoners  following  bare-headed 
— the  greatest  humiliation  an  Arab  can  endure;  other 
banners  floating  in  the  sun,  heralds  in  golden  tabards 
proclaiming  with  a  loud  voice  the  feats  of  arms  accom- 
plished during  the  siege;  bowmen,  pursuivaiits,  knights 
and  esquires  in  squadrons  behind,  with  gleaming  spears 
and  glistening  targets,  mounted  on  proudly  prancing  war- 
horses,  a  sheet  of  mail. 

As  Fernando  passes  the  drawbridge,  marked  now 
by  a  sensible  depression  in  the  road  (for  the  Puerta 
del  Trionfo  disappeared  in  the  last  revolution,  and  the 
fosse  is  filled  up),  a  cup  of  rock-crystal  is  presented  to 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  293 

him  under  an  Arab  arch  by  the  Christian  citizens,  filled 
to  the  brim  with  golden  Xerez  wine.  This  he  quaffs  to 
the  health  of  his  victorious  army,  turning  himself  around 
in  his  saddle-bow  so  that  all  may  see. 

"Castile!  Castile!  Leon  to  the  rescue!  Viva  el  Rey 
Fernando!  Viva  el  Cristo  Deo!"  come  ringing  through 
the  air  from  every  Christian  throat  of  mailed  warriors 
and  tried  men-at-arms.  Their  arms  and  hands  are  weary 
from  the  toil,  but  their  hearts  make  merry  at  the  pageant 
and  the  booty  in  store  for  all. 

Then  two  men,  a  Jew  and  a  Moor,  advance  from 
the  crowd,  one  an  aged  Rabbi,  with  a  long  white  beard, 
habited  in  a  Hebrew  gabardine  reaching  to  the  ground, 
the  other  a  young  Arab  of  stately  presence,  fully 
equipped  for  battle,  the  nephew  of  Caliph  Azataff,  but 
without  casque  or  scimitar — both  bearing  offerings  to  the 
king.  The  Jewish  gift  is  an  iron  key,  bearing  on  the 
wards  the  words  in  Hebrew:  "The  King  of  kings  shall 
open;  the  King  of  all  the  earth  shall  enter."  The  Moor 
also  bears  a  key,  but  it  is  of  silver,  inscribed  in  Arabic 
characters  with  the  motto:  "May  Allah  render  the 
dominion  of  Islam  eternal;"  and  as  the  young  knight 
offers  it  to  Fernando,  kneeling  in  the  dust  beside  his 
stirrup,  he  raises  his  other  hand  to  put  back  the  bitter 
tears  that  blind  his  eyes. 

At  the  moment  King  Fernando  entered  Seville  the 
caliph  fled  by  the  side  where  is  now  the  Hospital  del 
Sangre,  near  to  the  Convent  of  San  Jeronima  in  the 
fields,  on  the  spot  where  the  lepers  had  their  ancient 
refuge. 

Whither  the  caliph  went  no  one  knew,  or  if  he  died 
by  his  own  hand  or  that  of  another,   Fernando  little 


294  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

heeding  his  fate  as  he  passes  into  the  city  to  take  pos- 
session of  the  Castle  of  the  Alcazar. 

And  there  he  lived  till  he  died,  and  was  buried  in 
the  Capella  Real  of  the  great  mosque  he  turned  into  a 
cathedral. 

Over  the  altar,  placed  on  a  silver  throne  embossed 
with  the  double  knout  of  Castile  and  Leon,  sits  the 
Httle  ivory  image  of  the  Virgen  de  los  Reyes,  given  him 
by  St.  Louis — the  same  mediaeval  figure,  with  a  glisten- 
ing gown,  hair  spun  in  gold,  and  shoes  worked  with 
Gallic  lilies  and  the  word  ''Amor,"  he  always  carried 
on  his  saddle-bow  in  battle. 

The  Capella  Real  is  a  church  within  a  church, 
entered  by  golden  gates  behind  the  altar,  where,  under 
a  richly  incrusted  dome,  in  a  shell-shaped  vault,  lies 
Saint  Fernando  in  a  cr>'Stal  coffin.  The  body  is  wonder- 
fully preserved.  On  his  head  is  the  pointed  crown  he 
wore  in  life,  and  his  royal  mantle  is  wrapped  about  his 
loins.  On  one  side  lies  the  sword  with  which  he  fought 
his  way  into  Toledo  and  Seville,  on  the  other  the  baton 
of  command.  Beside  him  rest  his  son,  Alonso  the  Wise, 
and  his  Queen  Beatrice,  and  on  a  wall  near  at  hand  are 
the  medallions  of  the  chivalric  brothers  Don  Garcia  and 
Don  Diego  de  Varga. 

The  hour  to  enter  the  cathedral  is  at  the  Ave  Maria, 
when  the  sun  is  low  and  its  rays  tremble  on  the  burnished 
walls  in  irises  of  gold,  and  the  great  painted  windows 
stand  out  in  a  pale  light,  alive  with  venerable  forms  of 
law-givers,  prophets,  and  kings;  the  delicate  curves  of 
the  arches  melt  into  dim  lines,  and  rays  of  yellow  light 
pierce  like  arrows  across  the  floor. 

Then  the  sculptured  saints  seem  to  take  form  and 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN.  295 

live,  the  flying  pipes  of  the  twin  organs  to  glitter  Hke 
angels'  wings,  the  statues  in  the  choir  to  murmur  in 
strange  tongues,  the  many  famous  pictures  which  line  the 
walls  to  grow  terrible  in  the  half-light,  with  dark  forms 
of  archbishops  and  priests,  monks  and  canons  long  laid 
to  rest  in  the  repose  of  painted  shrines,  beside  which 
deacons  keep  watch  with  silver  croziers;  and  from  the 
boundless  gloom  a  burst  of  sound  rolls  forth  Hke  the 
thunder  of  an  earthquake  from  the  deep-mouthed  pipes 
of  the  two  organs,  replying  to  each  other  as  in  a  voice 
of  Titans — the  rattle  of  conquering  drums,  the  shrill 
bray  of  trumpets,  the  crying  voice  of  pipes,  and  all  the 
clash  and  clamour  as  of  a  battlefield. 

On  the  anniversary  of  St.  Fernando's  death  the 
troops  still  march  in  to  hear  the  military  mass  and  to 
lower  the  standard  of  Spain  before  his  body,  each 
soldier  bearing  a  lighted  torch.  Once  it  was  a  com- 
pany of  a  hundred  Moors,  bareheaded,  who  carried  the 
torches  to  the  royal  bier,  sent  in  token  of  submission 
by  the  Caliph  of  Granada.  Could  any  conqueror  wish 
for  more? 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

DON  PEDRO. 

Oh!  the  beautiful  south  it  is  at  Seville!  Nothin 
can  shut  it  out!  With  its  glamour  of  all  strange  things 
in  nature,  story,  and  song;  Moslem  and  Christian  knights 
and  lovely  sultanas  hung  with  priceless  pearls,  dead 
caliphs  haunting  blood-stained  towers,  shades  of  Chris- 
tian conquerors  and  swarthy  slaves,  the  curse  of  a  mur- 
derous past,  the  glitter  of  a  glorious  present,  the  clash, 
the  confusion.     Arab  palaces  marble-paved,  heavy  with 


G) 


2g6  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

far-off  tales,  and  gates,  walls  and  castles  of  nations  long 
died  out,  yet  with  a  poetic  life  still  speaking! 

The  narrow  streets,  across  which  lovers  still  whisper 
to  each  other  under  the  moon,  the  unshuttered  windows, 
iron-bound,  where  Inez  may  creep  down  and  warble  to 
Alonso,  concealed  in  a  dark  mantle  behind  the  shadow 
of  a  wall,  where  roses  fling  curtains  of  perfumed  blos- 
som, orange  petals  scent  the  air,  and  southern  sunsets 
spread  sudden  splendours  in  the  afterglow,  as  the  earth 
lies  black  under  a  sky  palpitating  like  a  furnace,  till 
night  falls  and  countless  stars  come  forth  to  light  a  paler 
day! 

Two  things  are  most  notable  at  Seville;  the  great 
mosque,  now  the  cathedral,  and  the  Alcazar.  The 
Alcazar,  inhabited  by  long  generations  of  Arab  caliphs 
up  to  the  time  of  St.  Fernando,  is  still  untouched,  a 
Moorish  fortress  in  the  centre  of  the  city,  girt  by  tapia 
walls  and  castellated  towers.  Not  a  poetic  ruin  like  the 
Alhambra,  but  a  real  substantial  castle,  reached  through 
the  Plaza  del  Trionfo  by  which  Fernando  passed. 

It  was  again  re-built  and  re-decorated  by  Don  Pedro 
el  Cruel,  1350,  King  of  Castile  and  Leon,  at  the  same 
period  as  the  Alhambra,  Yussuf,  Caliph  of  Granada, 
being  on  such  friendly  terms  with  Don  Pedro  that  the 
same  Moorish  architect  wrought  for  both. 

Passing  an  outer  barbican  with  two  low  towers  the 
Patio  de  las  Banderas,  where  floats  the  flag  of  Spain,  a 
dark  corridor  leads  to  the  inner  Patio  de  la  Monteria, 
where  the  portal  of  Don  Pedro  blazes  in  the  sun,  a 
glittering  blending  of  red,  blue,  and  gold,  set  on  snowy 
surfaces  of  finest  fretwork;  painted  roofs  casting  rich 
shadows,  arabesques  formed  into  Cufic  letters,  diapered 
borders  parting  into  groups  of  horseshoe  arches,  and  a 


OLD    COURT  LIFE  IN   SPAIN.  297 

Gothic  inscription  setting  forth  "That  the  most  high  and 
powerful  Don  Pedro,  by  the  Grace  of  God  King  of 
Castile  and  Leon,  ordered  these  castles  and  fortresses 
to  be  re-erected."  The  magic  of  it  all  wonderful,  coming 
into  sight  as  it  does,  rising  tier  above  tier,  parapet  on 
parapet,  in  a  glow  of  oriental  colour,  to  a  central  dome 
cutting  against  the  azure  sky;  the  door  a  curious  mosaic 
of  dark  wood,  and  on  either  side  low  marble  benches, 
sunk  into  the  arcaded  carvings  of  the  wall,  where  the 
young  King  Don  Pedro  sat  to  administer  justice  to  all 
who  came,  while  his  dark-haired  mistress,  Maria  de  Pa- 
dilla,  watched  from  above,  leaning  out  of  the  central 
mirador  (window)  of  her  chamber,  still  used  as  a  retiring- 
room  for  the  Queens  of  Spain. 

One  morning  Don  Pedro,  taking  his  place  as  usual, 
surrounded  by  his  alguazils,  commanded  that  certain 
men  should  be  brought  before  him  whose  arrest  he  had 
ordered  as  they  were  drifting  down  the  Guadalquivir 
with  the  tide  to  Cadiz  upon  a  wooden  raft.  His  knitted 
brows  and  sinister  aspect  boded  ill  to  the  rough-looking 
countrymen  brought  trembling  into  the  court. 

"How  comes  it,  fellows,"  asks  the  king,  his  steely- 
blue  eyes  fixed  on  the  foremost  man,  "that  you  dare  to 
come  to  Seville  to  cheat  me  of  the  dues  on  the  timber 
that  floats  down  the  stream?  Think  you  you  will  escape 
unpunished?" 

"O  King,"  one  of  the  men  answers,  falling  on  his 
knees,  "in  what  have  we  offended?  We  are  four  poor 
men  from  Puerta  Santa  Maria,  incapable  of  deceiving 
anyone — much  less  your  royal  Grace." 

"Liar!"  roars  the  young  king,  starting  from  his  seat 
"Look  at  me.     Do  vou  not  know  me?" 


298  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IK  SPAIN. 

"No,  my  lord,  I  have  never  to  my  knowledge  set 
eyes  on  you  before." 

"You  did  not  meet  me  last  night  upon  the  quay?" 

"No,  my  liege." 

"Come  now,"  and  a  cynical  smile  spreads  over  his 
fair  young  face,  "remember!  Did  not  a  stranger  help 
you  to  unload  a  raft?  A  fellow  you  found  sleeping 
under  a  boat  wrapped  in  a  cloak?  Did  you  not  wake 
him  and  promise  to  pay  him  well,  if  he  would  aid  you 
to  land  certain  timber,  so  that  you  might  start  before 
sunrise?" 

"O  King,  it  is  true;  we  spoke  with  such  a  fellow — 
mean,  almost  in  rags — and  he  did  help  us  after  sunset 
to  land  some  wood.  We  paid  him  and  let  him  go,  and 
the  king's  dues  on  it  were  lodged  at  the  Torre  d'Oro 
before  we  left." 

"Villains!"  cries  the  king,  his  features  darkening. 
"A  pretty  example!  This  is  how  my  subjects  rob  and 
cheat  and  lie.  I  should  like  to  cut  off  your  heads  with 
my  own  hand.  Know  you  that  I  was  that  fellow  who 
helped  you,  'that  mean  person  in  rags.'  Did  you  not 
say  the  night  was  dark,  and  that  no  man  would  see  you 
land  the  timber  and  you  would  escape  the  dues?  And 
did  you  not  add  that  those  dues  were  wrung  unjustly 
from  poor  men?  and  that  the  king  who  slept  in  golden 
chambers  would  be  none  the  worse  if  he  lost  them? 
And  did  I  not  tell  you  that  my  name  was  Pedro — 
Pedro?"  Here  the  cruel  boy  broke  into  a  mocking 
laugh,  more  terrible  than  threats.  "Now  I  am  that 
Pedro,  King  of  Castile  and  Leon  and  Caliph  of  Cordoba 
and  Seville!" 

Then  turning  to  the  mutes,  who  stood  with  drawn 
swords  behind:  "Cut  off  the  heads  of  these  carrion  and 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  2Q9 

set  them  on  the  wharf,  that  all  men  may  know  me  as  I 
am,  El  Rey  Justiciero." 

Looking  at  Don  Pedro,  son  of  Alonso  XL — 13 12 — 
(who  was  cruel  also  and  made  away  with  his  enemies 
remorselessly) — he  is  not  such  a  remote  personage  after 
all.  He  was  contemporary  with  the  Black  Prince,  son  of 
Eleanor  of  Castile,  daughter  of  Alfonso,  El  Sabio,  and 
four  short  reigns  bring  him  almost  into  modern  times 
with  Fernando  and  Isabel,  the  parents  of  Caterina  of 
Aragon,  wife  of  Henry  VIIL 

The  times  were  stirring  when  he  came  to  the  throne. 
The  Crusades  were  not  over,  and  the  world  was  moved 
by  wars,  murders  and  pestilence. 

Young  as  he  was,  under  twenty  when  he  succeeded 
his  father,  Don  Pedro  fixes  the  attention  of  Europe;  the 
most  prominent  figure  in  Spain  since  the  time  of  San 
Fernando,  and  as  fantastic,  brave,  handsome  and  un- 
scrupulous as  a  Castihan  prince  should  be. 

Yet  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  during  his  short 
reign  he  civilised  the  South  of  Spain  by  a  close  alliance 
with  the  cultivated  Moors  of  Granada;  that  he  loved  the 
arts  and  industries  in  which  they  excelled,  and  during 
his  brief  periods  of  leisure  from  incessant  wars,  sur- 
rounded himself  with  all  that  was  illustrious  in  the  Mus- 
sulman race — still  the  mediaeval  depositors  of  knowledge 
in  Spain,  as  the  monks  were  in  central  Europe.  As  long 
as  he  lived  he  never  abandoned  these  artistic  tastes, 
and  has  left  in  the  Alcazar  a  monument  of  exquisite 
architecture,  which  sends  down  his  name  to  posterity 
with  honour. 

In  a  small  plaza  not  far  from  the  Casa  de  Pilatos, 


300  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

popularly  believed  to  have  been  constructed  on  the 
model  of  the  Proconsular  Palace  at  Jerusalem  in  which 
Pilate  lived,  by  a  travelled  ancestor  of  the  San  Sidonia 
family,  a  small  bust  of  Don  Pedro  is  let  into  a  house 
wall. 

From  this  we  know  him  as  he  was:  regular  aquiline 
features,  with  soft  youthful  lines,  long  waves  of  rippling 
curls  fall  on  his  shoulders  and  a  low  pointed  crown 
presses  upon  his  smooth  brow.  One  hand  rests  on  the 
hilt  of  a  sword,  the  other  grasps  a  Gothic  sceptre.  The 
place  where  the  bust  is  placed  is  called  the  Calle  dd 
Candilejo ,  in  the  middle  of  narrow  alleys  unaltered 
since  the  Moors. 

Now  the  story  goes  that  in  one  of  his  midnight 
rambles,  for  he  wandered  about  like  the  Caliph  Haroun 
El  Raschid,  Don  Pedro  found  himself  in  the  Calle  del 
Candilejo  (of  the  candle),  where  he  ran  up  against  a 
hidalgo,  who  turned  and  struck  him.  Some  say  that 
he  was  a  noted  duellist,  with  whom  Don  Pedro  had 
long  desired  to  measure  swords;  others  that  he  did  not 
run  up  against  the  king  at  all,  but  that  Don  Pedro  pur- 
posely attacked  him.  Anyhow  swords  were  drawn  freely. 
Neither  would  let  the  other  go  with  his  life,  and  both 
would  sell  their  own  dearly.  At  last,  by  a  cunning 
lunge,  Don  Pedro  ripped  up  his  adversary  and  laid  him 
at  his  feet 

Now,  shortly  before,  the  king  had  made  a  decree 
forbidding  all  fighting  in  the  streets  upon  pain  of  death. 
What  with  love,  revenge,  jealousy,  and  robbery,  so  many 
citizens  were  killed  that  there  were  not  enough  left  to 
fight. 

What  was  to  be  done?  There  lay  his  adversary 
dead,  and  as  Don  Pedro  gazed  down  upou  his  face  he 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  3OI 

remembered  that,  according  to  his  own  decree,  he  had 
condemned  himself  to  death.  While  he  was  wiping  the 
blood  from  his  sword,  an  idea  struck  him  and  he  began 
to  laugh.  No  one  had  seen  the  fight,  no  one  could 
identify  him.  What  an  excellent  occasion  this  would 
be  of  showing  the  carelessness  of  the  Alcaide.  If  the 
Alcaide  had  done  his  duty  and  put  guards  about,  such 
a  thing  could  not  have  happened.  Further,  if  the 
Alcaide  could  not  discover  him  as  the  living  man,  he, 
Don  Pedro,  would  have  the  pleasure  of  wringing  off  his 
neck.  Altogether  he  returned  to  the  Alcazar  in  high 
good  humour. 

The  first  thing  he  did  next  morning  was  to  summon 
the  Alcaide.  "Sir  Alcaide,"  said  he,  leading  him  by  the 
hand  to  a  seat  on  his  own  divan,  "I  have  called  you  to 
inquire  whether  any  miscreant  has  dared  to  transgress 
my  law  against  street-fighting.  In  these  unsettled  times  it 
is  needful  that  the  king  should  be  obeyed." 

"My  lord,"  replied  the  Alcaide,  not  altogether  re- 
assured by  the  king's  manner,  too  gracious  to  be  sincere, 
"I  am  not  aware  that  anyone  has  offended." 

"Ha!  say  you  so?  Are  you  sure?  For  remember, 
if  any  fighting  takes  place  within  the  city  and  the  sur- 
vivor escapes,  I  shall  hold  you  responsible  for  the  blood 
that  is  shed." 

At  this  the  Alcaide  grew  very  grave.  He  was  quite 
aware  that  Don  Pedro  would  be  as  good  as  his  word, 
and  trembled  lest  some  hidden  motive  was  prompting 
him.  Nor  was  he  left  long  in  doubt.  Before  he  could 
reply  a  Moorish  page  entered,  bearing  a  paper  on  a 
silver  salver,  which  no  sooner  had  the  king  glanced  at, 
than,  starting  to  his  feet,  he  swore  a  big  oath. 

"What,"   he  cries,   "while  you,  Alcaide,   are  come 


302  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

here  to  lie  and  cringe,  a  more  faithful  servant  warns 
me  that  a  dead  body  was  found  last  night  in  the  plaza 
behind  Pilatos'  house!" 

"Sire,"  replies  the  Alcaide,  "if  it  be  so,  you  have 
good  reason  to  reproach  me." 

"If!"  shouts  the  king  in  a  well  simulated  rage. 
"Do  you  dare  to  doubt  me?  Now,  to  teach  you  your 
duty,  I  warn  you  that  if  the  criminal  is  not  found  in 
two  days,  you  yourself  shall  hang  in  his  place." 

The  feelings  of  the  Alcaide,  a  comfortable  man  with 
a  wife  and  family,  may  be  imagined.  No  sooner  did 
he  reach  the  Ayuntamiento  than  he  found  that  a  fight 
had  really  taken  place,  and  a  dead  body  been  dis- 
covered. But  alas!  no  one  could  give  him  the  slightest 
clue.  No  one  had  seen  the  fight;  no  one  knew  the 
survivor. 

At  last,  on  the  evening  of  the  second  day,  when  in 
sheer  despair  he  had  taken  leave  of  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren and  sent  for  his  confessor,  an  old  woman  looking 
like  a  witch,  was  shown  into  his  presence,  and  astonished 
him  by  declaring  that  she  could  name  the  man.  But 
what  with  his  impatience  and  the  breathless  state  of 
the  old  woman  it  was  some  time  before  he  could  get  her 
to  explain. 

At  last  she  spoke.  "I  had  just  fastened  my  door 
and  was  going  upstairs,  for  it  was  late,  when  I  heard  a 
great  clatter  of  swords  at  the  opening  of  the  Calle.  As 
the  night  was  dark  and  I  could  not  see,  I  lit  a  candle 
and  looked  out  of  the  window.  There  I  saw  two  men 
fighting.  As  one,  or  both,  will  be  sure  to  want  to  be 
laid  out  to-morrow  (for  my  trade  is  with  the  dead),  I 
will  make  sure,  I  said  to  myself.  One  had  his  back  to 
me,  the  other  was  the  king." 


OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN.  303 

**The  king?" 

"Yes,  my  lord,  and  no  other.  He  was  in  common 
clothes  and  wore  a  mask;  but  when  he  had  run  his 
enemy  through  he  took  it  off,  and  stood  wiping  his 
sword.  I  could  see  him  as  plainly  as  I  see  you.  In  a 
terrible  fright,  I  blew  out  my  candle,  lest  he  should  look 
up  and  kill  me  also;  but  he  was  too  busy.  If  I  had  not 
seen  his  face,"  continued  the  old  woman,  chuckling  to 
herself,  "I  should  have  known  him  by  the  knocking  of 
his  knees.  Everybody  in  Seville  knows  the  noise  the 
king  makes  when  he  walks." 

The  old  woman  dismissed  with  proper  thanks  and  a 
liberal  reward,  the  Alcaide  presented  himself  betimes  at 
the  Alcazar  next  morning,  arriving  just  as  Don  Pedro  was 
taking  his  seat  upon  the  marble  bench  outside  his  daz- 
zling portal,  to  judge  all  who  came. 

When  Don  Pedro  beckoned  to  him  to  approach  the 
Alcaide  smiled.  "Well,  sir  officer,"  says  he,  eyeing 
him  all  over  with  an  evil  smile,  "have  you  found  the 
man  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  lord,  and  nothing  is  easier  than  for  your 
Grace  to  meet  him  face  to  face."  At  which  notion  the 
Alcaide  became  so  overwhelmed  with  mirth  he  had  to 
turn  away  his  face  not  to  laugh  outright. 

"Is  the  man  mad?"  thought  Don  Pedro,  "or  is  he 
mocking  me?"  Then  a  fit  of  passion  seized  him.  "Vil- 
lain," he  shouts,  "you  have  found  no  one.  You  are 
shirking  to  save  your  life.  Unless  the  real  man  is 
brought  here " 

"But,  my  lord,"  breaks  in  the  Alcaide,  "if  you  know 
who  the  real  man  is,  why  do  you  command  me  to  seek 
him?"  To  which  shrewd  question  Don  Pedro  could 
find  no  reply:  only  if  he  hated  the  Alcaide  before,  he 


304  OLD   COURT  LIFE  IN  SPAIN. 

then  and  there  resolved  on  the  very  next  opportunity  to 
cut  off  his  head. 

"Now,"  and  the  Alcaide  looks  the  young  king  full 
in  the  face,  "will  my  lord  permit  me  to  take  leave  in 
order  to  make  preparation  for  the  execution?  I  think 
you  insisted  on  the  third  day  from  the  murder,  that  is 
to-morrow?  As  you  yourself  will  be  present,  all  must  be 
arranged  with  fitting  care." 

Then  he  called  to  him  skilful  Moorish  artificers,  for 
all  the  delicate  work  at  that  time  was  done  by  Moors, 
and  caused  them  to  construct  during  the  night  a  life- 
sized  figure  or  dummy,  dressed  in  royal  robes,  to  re- 
present the  king,  a  sword  in  one  hand  and  a  sceptre  in 
the  other.  The  next  morning  this  figure  was  hung  on 
a  gibbet  in  the  Plaza  de  San  Francisco,  Don  Pedro  him- 
self being  present,  attended  by  all  his  court. 

How  he  looked  or  in  what  manner  he  explained  so 
strange  a  proceeding,  tradition  does  not  say;  but  when 
the  crowned  dummy  was  swinging  in  the  air,  the  king 
called  the  Alcaide  to  him  and  said,  "Justice  has  been 
done. — I  am  satisfied." 

Ever  since  that  time  the  spot  where  the  king  fought 
is  called  the  "Calle  della  Cabeza  del  Rev  Don  Pedro," 
and  the  narrow  alley  close  by,  where  the  old  woman 
looked  out  of  the  window,  the  ''Calle  del  Ca7idilejo ;" 
while,  that  there  might  be  no  mistake  as  to  what  took 
place  there,  a  bust  of  Don  Pedro  is  let  into  the  wall. 

END   OF  VOL.   L 


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